


My Star

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Filming Porn, Heavy like child abuse, I always fix what I break, I don't shy away from shit that hurts, Ian the head of the household, If you want light and easy this is the wrong place, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Language, M/M, Ned Lishman is a pervert, Non-Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Past Child Molestation, Probably going to get heavy, Smut, Stripper Ian Gallagher, Underaged Mickey Milkovich, enter at your own risk, pretty hard to get through, probably contains all kinds of triggers, read the chapter summaries and notes, seriously enter at your own risk, won't be everyone's cup of tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 56,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: CONTAINS SENSITIVE SUBJECT MATTER - PLEASE READ WARNINGS AND CHAPTER NOTESNineteen year old Ian Gallagher agrees to film a porn.  What happens when his scene partner is a raven-haired ocean-eyed beauty that he can't help but want more with?Seems like it could be just a sexy, fun topic to explore; but fair warning - I couldn't manage to convince myself to romanticize the porn industry.  So you've been warned... I also couldn't manage to make this just a two or three chapter little story, it just had to have a dark side - like a serious dark side so read the tags and the notes.------That bubble floating away on the gentle summer breeze, transparent and delicate.  It drifts, bobs, graces the surface of a blade of green grass.  Barely brushing over it as it wafts upward on the next flow of air.  Twirling back down to kiss across the sea of dew laden emeralds until it lands.  Lingers, maintains.  And bursts.------





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night one of filming.
> 
> Sorry in advance for being so cringe-worthy. It'll get better, check my notes at the end for why I went this way.

“Disrobe,” the guy orders with a wave of his hand towards the bed. Bustling away to rap on the dressing room door, “Milkovich. We’re ready for you,” his eyes scanning over to where Ian has paused. Starting to regret agreeing to this. It sounded so easy. Just an easy way to make a few hundred dollars. Not much different than stripping. Being mostly naked in front of a bunch of strangers. But this, this is all the way naked in a small intimate setting with a bunch of strangers with cameras and lights. They’re not even looking at him, they’re adjusting their settings, modes, angles. 

Only the director is looking at him, his head jerking towards the bed, “now, gingersnap.”

“Okay,” he hears himself respond, swallowing the lump that’s formed in the back of this throat. What if the guy he’s doing the scene with is totally unattractive? What if he can’t get hard for him? Not that getting hard has been an issue, he is after all a nineteen year old male. But what if he’s, for lack of better words, a femme twink? What if he’s a girly little waif of a guy and Ian can’t even close his eyes and pretend he’s attracted to him? What if he has plucked narrow brows and eyeliner? What if he has waxed legs and, “holy fuck,” he hears himself whisper as the dressing room door opens. 

The robe he was hiding behind is coming off quickly and blood is rushing in the correct general direction to get this done. His worries assuaged when his eyes scan over the naked body of dark-haired, pretty-eyed, spark plug of a young man. He’s short, perfectly balanced between muscled and fleshy. His eyebrows are risen to nearly his hairline as he speaks to the director but Ian can barely hear what he’s saying over the rushing of blood in his ears. 

“Minimum of nine inches,” hands rising between him and the director, spacing out the nine inches with two perfectly calloused looking hands, tattoos reading FUCK U-UP.

“I know Milky, I heard you the last three times. Now get out there, do your thing. Be my star,” taking his face in his hands, leveling his eyes with a longing in his gaze that makes Ian think they’re together. Fuck, this is going to be weird. 

But now his blue eyes are turning, scanning Ian over from head to toe and it doesn’t matter if God himself was sitting at the foot of this bed, fucking this man will not be a problem. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at firecrotch?” he wonders with a cocky lift in his animated brow.

“Nothing,” mumbling as he stalks over to the bed. Keeping a confident strength in his shoulders. 

“Alright, look alive everyone. Let’s get this in one take, shall we?” smacking the ass of the stocky brunette. It responds with the perfect amount of jiggle. Ian feels himself licking his lips at the sight. 

Holy fuck, now the guy is leaning slowly forward, hands on the mattress, bending over. His bare ass towards the camera, back arched deeply as his knees meet the bedding. Slowly crawling towards Ian on his hands and knees. Eyes sultry, lips pursed as he nears. No, it will not be a problem to fuck this guy. Or kiss this guy. Or eat this guy’s ass. Whatever the fuck this guy wants, Ian will give. 

Feeling his dick starting to stiffen as those blue eyes linger on his lips. Moving slowly, every single movement he makes is calculated. Ian feels like prey. And he doesn’t mind it one fucking bit. His hands that are just as calloused as they look are making contact with Ian’s thighs. They’re sliding across the surface of his skin, sending a shock of lightning racing through his body. A shiver up his spine and, “cut! Is it too cold in here for you gingersnap?”

“You ain’t touchin’ that thermostat Ned,” reeling around off the bed quickly, finger pointing menacingly at the director now.  
The guy grabs his finger, drawing it to his lips and sucking it into his mouth, “you aren’t in charge here kitten,” leaning into the guy’s neck to get a nip of his skin, “you’re in charge everywhere else Milky, but not here,” nudging at his jaw with his face, “mmm, keep doing what you’re doing sexy.”

As he repositions himself at the foot of the mattress the director calls, “action,” and he’s at it again. Slowly crawling towards Ian with his eyebrow lifted and a sultry, sexy, fucking insanely gorgeous begging to be fucked look in his eye. His face nears, his hands sliding up Ian’s thighs, his knees moving until they’re lodged between Ian’s ankles, his mouth making the most delicious contact with Ian’s stomach. Swirling a tongue around his bellybutton, Ian’s dick responding immediately as his head arches back and his hips lift towards the hands that are leisurely making contact with his balls. Fingers painstakingly sliding over every fold and crevice in his flesh. Fuck, this guy might be memorizing the pattern of every wrinkle in his ballbag and fuck it feels good. It feels so fucking good. It feels like, “cut!”

“The fuck now?” jerking away with an annoyed look on his face that Ian would hate to be the subject of.

“Not you kitten, you’re my star,” leaning down to whisper something to one of the camera guys. Fuck, Ian can’t focus on anything beyond the way this guy’s body is put together. Holy fuck it’s the most perfect balance of everything Ian has ever imagined running his hands over, sliding his tongue across, pressing his lips into, and… “action.”

Now he’s leaning down again. Tracing fingers over skin, slipping his tongue down Ian’s stomach. Hands, hands working and massaging Ian’s balls. And his dick is getting painfully hard. His lips are softer than silk as they slide over the tip of Ian’s cock. Suctioning to just the tip of it, letting off as his tongue swirls around the head before leaning in and sliding down the entire length of it. His hand rises from his side unconsciously sliding into the inky black hair, fingers pressing into the back of his skull. Keeping him down, keeping his mouth tight, his throat trapped around his shaft. Pelvis lifting, eyelids plastering themselves shut, a gasp escaping his lips, the black blanket inside his lids starting to spin, and… “cut.”

Releasing with a loud pop, “keep your hands off my fuckin’ head,” snarling at him, hand rising to wipe the spit off the corner of his mouth. But he never gagged. Otherwise Ian would have let go. And isn’t that what people want in porn? 

“That was perfect, sexy, incredible,” the director is nearing, taking the guy’s hips in his hands and rubbing against his asscheeks, “you’ll be rewarded for it later kitten,” slapping his pale cheek and backing away, “again. This time fuck his mouth gingersnap. Hold his head and fuck his mouth.”

“But…” Ian stammers, if he doesn’t want it then…

“Hold his head and fuck his mouth,” the director repeats.

Ian’s eyes land on the brunette, he’s watching him, giving him words without speaking. This is porn. They’re both here willingly. But, fuck, Ian doesn’t want to do things to a partner that a partner doesn’t want. 

“Be vocal,” he orders them both, “and action.”

Jesus, he’s leaning down again, wondering with an arched brow, “you want your cock in my mouth, huh?”

Ian nods, it’s true. He won’t deny that. He’s never been turned on by dirty talk, but he’s getting paid to do this, “uh huh. I want my dick in your mouth. I want you to suck my cock until,” his words cut off by the contact. Fuck, his eyes close immediately and his head falls back against the headboard. His hands rise, doing as he’s told, taking two fistfuls of that thick soft gorgeous dark hair. Pelvis lifting. Hesitant at first. 

“Fuck his mouth,” he hears the director, “that’s it,” as he starts thrusting a little harder, “there you go, keep going. Harder.”

Fuck, this feels weird, “take that cock,” his voice sounds foreign. Gripping the guy’s head, holding it down on his dick as he moves up and down. But when he hears a gag he lets go. Fuck, that’s a horrible feeling when someone’s holding you down long enough to make you gag. Ian knows that feeling. Guys at the club, if they pay enough he’ll blow them, and more often than not they’re over eager and forceful. 

“Don’t let up,” the director reminds him. And the gorgeous man on his cock is sliding up and down the length of it with his sinfully warm, wet mouth. 

Tingles are rising from his toes and his hands are sliding into his hair again, “mmm, yeah gag on that cock.”

Did that just come out of Ian’s mouth? 

Releasing his hold on the guy’s hair, but continuing to thrust into his mouth as the director nears. His hands sliding over the fleshy asscheeks that Ian wants to touch. There’s a muffled grunt around his cock as the director’s fingers start working at doing the prep that Ian was hoping he’d get to do. He’s not being very gentle about it as far as he can tell, and it’s kind of distracting as the guy lurches forward, forcing himself to gag as he attempts to relieve some pressure on his ass. 

“Mmhmm, take it like the good little boy that you are.”

Ian reels back as much as he can, but doesn’t have much space to do so. 

“Fuck his mouth gingersnap,” ordering, “he can take it.”

“But does he want it?” Ian can’t help but wonder.

“Yes, he wants it. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here,” leveling Ian with a glare and shoving another finger into the guy’s ass. Being met with a grunt muffled around the shaft of Ian’s dick, “we’ll edit this stupid-ass dialogue out. Keep rolling,” over his shoulder to the camera guy, “still salvageable,” leaning down to add spit to his working fingers. 

Damn it, Ian did not think this through when he agreed to film a porn. Fucking guy made it sound so easy. Just fuck a hot young man on film. No big deal. But this is fucking distracting and it’s hard to maintain the mood when he’s not even certain his partner wants to be here right now. 

One hand rubbing on Ian’s balls, the other is sliding up the surface of his stomach, chest. Landing on a shoulder and staying there as starts pushing himself back into the hand behind him, to the director’s spurring, “good boy, my kitten, my star, opening up nicely.”

Whatever he does next makes the guy lurch forward again, this time disengaging his mouth from Ian’s cock with a wet pop. Spitting the type of spit that would make great lube if he were going to do this without a condom. He can feel the moisture coating his erection, painfully aware of the guy’s gorgeous eyes on his as he nears. Dragging himself closer, “you want that big cock in my ass? Want me to take that big cock?” 

His knees meeting Ian’s hips as he lowers himself, one hand remaining on his shoulder, Ian nods, licking his lips as the director and the camera guys and the lighting guys become nothing more than blur for a moment while those blue eyes are locked onto his and he’s holding Ian’s dick in one hand, centering himself over it and pushing past the threshold with a hard gasp.

“Fuck,” Ian can barely see, so many spots have jumped into his vision at the feel of this man’s heat enveloping him. Too late to put on a rubber. But that doesn’t even matter to him right now. Those eyes are lingering on his and it’s all he can see, his hands coming up to grasp his hips as he sinks himself down on Ian’s lap. 

A sharp inhale as he wonders through clenched teeth, “you like that? You like your cock in my ass?”

“Yeah,” he responds. It’s not untrue. He just wishes there weren’t a bunch of people in here with them. 

And he wishes he could have prepped him properly instead of this rough geriatric viagroid who’s telling him, “harder. Fuck his ass like you mean it. I want to see that fat ass jiggle. I want it to look like an earthquake is shaking that fat ass.”

His ass isn’t fat. Ian almost says it. It’s not fat. It’s perfect. 

“Smack it. Hard. Leave handprints.”

Fuck. His hands are gripping the guy’s hips and they feel exactly the way they should under Ian’s hands and he’s moving slowly right now. Slowly to get used to it, and Ian doesn’t want to change speed until he’s ready but, “fuck him gingersnap. Or I’ll find someone else who will.”

He doesn’t want to fuck him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to press his lips against that pretty pink mouth. He wants his hands to travel every single inch of flesh. He wants to hold him close to his chest and feel his breath on his neck. He wants to lay him down and watch his gorgeous eyes as they come together. 

A cocky half nod, biting his lower lip suggestively, “mmhmm, give it to me,” starting to rise up now, grinding back down. His cock is between them, hard heavy and wanting. Ian’s fingers slide around it, gently rubbing with his rhythm. Eyelids shutting, hiding that lazy summer sky blue of his eyes and he gasps, “faster,” spurring him on as he starts rocking harder and faster in Ian’s lap. Rising further and slamming down harder. 

“Yes, there’s my star,” the director announcing. Fuck, Ian forgot he was even here for that moment, “harder. Fuck him hard gingersnap. He’s been a bad boy. He deserves a spanking. Don’t you Milky?”

“Mmhmm, you gonna spank me daddy?” eyes open, voice strained, “I need to be spanked daddy,” watching Ian with a distant look on his face. When just a minute ago he felt like he was peeling his skin off his bones and staring at his bare soul. 

Shit, this is porn. This is what people want, right? Or at least enough people to make a few hundred dollars off it, “you’ve been naughty again?”

“I’ve been so naughty,” rising off Ian’s lap. Getting to his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, “so naughty.”

Ian has no desire to spank that fleshy ass. He wants to kiss it. He wants to run his lips across both cheeks, his tongue down the center, he wants to taste this man. He wants to run his fingertips over the mural of scars on his right cheek. They look like shotgun pellets. He wants to kiss each one while his hands work over his balls. While his fingers slide over that perfect cock again. 

“Spank me daddy,” presenting his ass like the greatest gift that’s ever been given. And it is. But Ian doesn’t want to, “spank me.”  
Fuck. The first one is lame. 

“Like you mean it,” he purrs it, watching over his shoulder as Ian’s left hand grips his hip, “I’ve been so naughty,” with an arched brow as Ian lines up. Fuck, he doesn’t want to do this. Winding up and swatting him, a loud slap and a jolt forwards, “mmhmm just like that daddy,” biting his lower lip he watches Ian, waiting for another. And another. And his asscheek is red and hot to the touch. And his lip must be bitten bloody by now. 

“Once more and then mount him.”

Mount him? What the fuck? Slap, Jesus this is fucking weird. And now that perfect ass looks pained and Ian hates that. He hates that his handprint is front and center on his right cheek, right over the scars. He hates that as he lays his hand over the print and lines up, rubbing his dick between his cheeks for a moment. Thinking lube would be helpful. His eyes scan over the set-up. Nothing. Spit. 

He can feel his head shaking as he presses into that warmth that felt so incredible minutes ago. Now it feels too tight, like his dick will be skinned if he doesn’t find some real lube. His coat is hanging outside that door. He always kept a few sample-sized packets in his pocket when he had a boyfriend, never knowing when the mood would strike, always wanting to be prepared. But then his boyfriend couldn’t handle the thought of him striping and handing out favors. Ian couldn’t really blame him for that. But he needed a paycheck and the gig at the White Swallow was a decent dime. 

The guy’s head is hidden in the bedding and he’s being met with so much resistance that he can’t help but wonder, “can we get some lube?”

“Fucking amateur,” the director shouts, “cut!” he kneels on the edge of the bed, leaning into Ian’s face, “it’s not that hard. Fuck him. Or I will find someone else who will,” threatening with a hard swat to the left asscheek beside Ian’s hand, “you like that kitten? Purr for me,” swatting it again before he backs up, “action.”

His back is arched, he’s grinding himself back against Ian but his face is hidden and he can’t imagine there’s anything resembling pleasure on his expression, “fuck me,” he urges, “fuck me hard. I like it rough. I deserve it rough daddy.”

Fuck, this is horrible. Not the guy, the guy is the most gorgeous thing Ian has ever laid eyes on, much less been inside. But this is fucking horrible like this, “you want it hard baby?” fuck that was stupid, “I’ll give it to you rough,” promising before he spits again. He starts rocking, letting some of the spit works it’s way in gently.

“Then give it to me, stop teasing,” he begs, his hand meeting Ian’s butt-cheek and pressing it hard towards him with a pinch to his flesh. Like a warning to just get this the fuck over with. 

Ian’s fingers grasp his wrist, drawing it away from his ass and pressing it into the pillow near his head. Finding his other wrist and doing the same as he picks up speed. Pinning them both with one hand is easy enough since he’s not fighting it. His free hand sliding down to find that cock that was so hard, heavy and wanting between them earlier. It’s losing interest, starting to soften with every thrust into his backside. And every gasp sounds more like pain than pleasure but the director keeps saying, “good. Harder. Good gingersnap. You’ve been a bad boy Milky, take your punishment like a man.”

Jesus fucking christ, are they going to get handcuffs out next? A paddle? A whip? This is not what Ian signed up for when he agreed to just fuck a hot wanting young man. This is not what he wanted. 

“Yes. Harder,” the guy gasps, “harder, give it to me. Just like that daddy. Harder.”

“Spank him some more.”

Fuck. This sucks. But he does as he’s told even though the perfect man he’s pounding into is gasping for air like he’s in pain and his dick is softening in Ian’s hand but he keeps urging, “just like that. Mmhmm. Just like that,” stopping only when he orders, “I want you to cum.”

There’s no way in Hell Ian is going to cum like this. Fuck. Pulling out and flipping the guy over to his back, much to his shock, but he rolls with it. Expecting a load on his face probably. He’s not going to do that either. He leans down, tracing his tongue over the soft smooth flesh of his cock as he slides a finger in his ass, giving a gentle massage to that sensitive patch of tissue that’s no doubt aching after being pounded relentlessly without enough warm-up or enough lube. 

“Fuck,” the guy whispers as his dick starts to come back to life. Hardening inside Ian’s mouth as his hips rock back on Ian’s finger. 

“Cut! What the fuck is this gingersnap? He wants your cum. Now give it to him.”

Damn it. Ian knows what it’s like to bottom with someone who is overeager to just get to endgame and doesn’t do a single damn thing for his partner in the process. He doesn’t want to be that guy. And fuck, he wants this guy to cum too. 

“Cum on his face if you aren’t going to do it in his ass.”

His eyes are like peering through a bubble into a midsummer’s sky and there’s an understanding in them, a type of forgiveness for what he’s about to do before he even does it. He nods, and the director is saying, “action,” again and Ian is holding his right asscheek in the palm of his hand and it fits perfectly, just like his dick fit perfectly in Ian’s throat, and his eyes look perfect in Ian’s vision and he’s nodding again. 

He’s sliding his way towards Ian, face tilted back, licking his lips and muttering, “give it to me,” as his hands slip up Ian’s thigh, finding and massaging his balls in the most luscious way he’s ever felt. Jesus, fuck, this guy knows how to touch. And his eyes are begging, begging to just finish this, just end it. How long have they been here, it feels like hours but only seconds at the same time. He could stare into those eyes for eternity, and his tongue is sliding across the head of Ian’s dick as he jerks it towards his gorgeous, pale face. And this close, looking down at him like this, he looks like a fucking sculpture of everything Ian has ever dreamed of looking at, but it seems so wrong to paint his beautiful face with cum. He wants to paint it with kisses. But his eyes, his eyes are begging, pleading. And fuck, his tongue on the tip of his dick and his fingers gently but firmly grasping Ian’s balls. 

And, “I’m going to cum,” he warns, half hoping the guy will back up, or take it in his mouth or something less degrading, even if it landed on his chest or stomach it would seem less… 

“Fuck,” his eyes close and he can’t watch what happens next. He feels like he’s desecrating holy land and he can’t watch himself do that. For what? A few hundred dollars?

This was a horrible idea. Why the fuck did he agree to this? Fuck, this was, “perfect, yes,” the director’s voice cuts into his reeling mind, “beautiful, yes. Lick that cum up. My star, my kitten. Lap that milk up.”

Oh fuck. Now there’s no way he can look. He backs off of the bed without making eye contact. He won’t be able to look at him without apologizing. He’ll probably get yelled at for apologizing. 

“Perfect,” the director is continuing to egg him on. 

Ian turns his back to the scene, finding the robe he hung on the hook earlier and returning it to his body. He feels like he needs the longest, hottest shower on the planet. He can’t even begin to imagine how the raven-haired ocean-eyed perfection-on-two-legs man feels right now. Wiping a stranger’s cum off his face with a damp cloth as the stupid fucking geriatric viagroid director keeps smothering him with weird fuckin’ praises that make the hair on the back of Ian’s neck stand up.

When he turns to see him grabbing two handfuls of red asscheek and yanking the guy towards him to kiss him hard, his stomach churns. Skin crawling as he starts for the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, using a baby wipe to clean off his dick while he fights the urge to vomit. He’ll have to make a trip to the clinic tomorrow. 

Redressed and exiting the bathroom, the fucking director has a smirk on his face, chin leaned on the shoulder of the guy who is still stark naked. His arms loose around his chest as he starts clapping slowly. Turning his face to whisper something to the guy before his eyes rise to meet Ian’s, “same time, same place tomorrow gingersnap.”

“What? You said, I thought…”

“Same time, same place tomorrow,” he avers with narrowed eyes, “unless you want to skip your payday.”

“But you said…”

“I asked if you wanted to film a porn. You said sure, why not? I never said how many scenes I needed from you.”

“But, I…”

“Look at this face,” taking the young man’s cheeks in his hand and forcing his gaze towards Ian, “he likes you. You don’t want to hurt his feelings now, do you? So if you want your paycheck, you’ll finish the show. Now get out of here. Same time tomorrow. Be here or lose your money,” before his face turns into the man’s neck again, this time his tongue leaves a wide strip of saliva down the length of his milky pale neck. And his eyes are flashed with things Ian can’t understand but he’s looking at Ian and suddenly he doesn’t look so much like a man, but a boy. And Ian’s heart suspends in his chest as the eye contact falters and the old guy drags him back by his hips into the dressing room. He watches him spin him roughly, walking him into a chest of drawers, pressing between his shoulder blades until he leans forwards and the door is slammed shut. 

What the fuck is going on? And what the fuck did Ian get himself into? 

It churns in his stomach and races around in circles in his mind on the L ride home. That look in his eyes. That expression in those sky blue eyes. That begging and pleading. Fuck. How does that fucking director watch strangers fucking his boyfriend on a regular basis and then just take him to the dressing room and fuck him? And he didn’t look like he wanted to be fucked. And he looks pretty physically in shape, enough that he could kick the shit out of the geriatric if he wanted to. So why doesn’t he want to? Is it just the money? Is it really just the money? And is Ian going to go back tomorrow for his paycheck? Is he really willing to put himself in that position, and put that gorgeous man in that position again? Or will that gorgeous man be in that position again anyway with or without him?

Running his hands over his face before he leans his forehead against the window, watching the sun starting to rise on the horizon, lighting up the city he’s lived his entire life in. God, he never wants to go back there again. But can he really just leave that gorgeous face with those pleading eyes alone with the wolves?

No. No, he can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on Right There Next You but righting all the canon wrongs for that fic is getting tedious, so I'm taking a quick break. 
> 
> I think that's supposed to be a version of Ned (whatever his name was, Jimmy/Steve's dad) because I thought he was a total predator in his dealings with Ian. So Mickey is aged down for this although Ian doesn't realize how young he is.
> 
> I intended on doing something lighter but then I couldn't help but think of how degrading a lot of porn is and how hard it would be to have sex on camera with a complete stranger. So this went a little sideways from the original image in my head.
> 
> I also read a couple articles written by/interviews with people in the industry - there are shockingly few out there. But one of them did say that depending on the director the set can be very sketchy, degrading, stressful. I'm not trying to generalize, this is just the curve this storyline took as I was writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading - or suffering and cringing to the end is probably more like it.


	2. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens on set when the director is a no-show?

Choice

 

Fuck, it was all Ian could do to walk through that door again. But now they’ve been sitting here for an hour waiting for the director and he’s getting so fucking tired. Even being on club time, being up all hours of the night, attending after-parties at the lofts of some snobby rich pricks but the party favors are good. Sitting here wrapped in a luxuriously soft robe, lazily looking to his right every once in a while at his scene partner. Good god, he’s gorgeous. Especially when he thinks no one is looking at him. 

Brows are shot up to his hairline in annoyance when his head snaps Ian’s way, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Maybe he should say something. Or try to make small talk. Instead he shrugs, being struck mute by the color of his eyes, the spark in them, like a blue flame at the center of a lighter. 

“Hmm?” holy fuck, those eyebrows can go higher.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, directing his focus elsewhere. 

Camera guy clears his throat, “what do you want to do here Milkovich?”

Chewing on his lower lip aggressively, “well he ain’t answerin’ so his bitch wife’s probably havin’ a meltdown again. Or maybe he got called in on some fuckin’ emergency fake titty repairs.”

The camera guy snickers, “well we’re here. No one gets paid unless the show goes on. Either start fucking or let’s call it a night. There any plot to this?”

“Anybody watch plot in porn?”

“No.”

“Then probably not,” he sighs, laced with annoyance as he gets to his feet, “takin’ a piss. Then let’s get this shit going.”

“Alright, carrot top you heard him.”

“So, um, how’s this all work anyway?” wondering while he strips off the robe.

“You fuck. You do what the director asks of you. You eventually get paid. If we’re not shooting then we’re losing money.”

“Is this what all sets are like?”

“Hell no. Ned used to make decent quality stuff, but word is he’s losing his mind a bit,” he motions quietly towards the closed bathroom door, putting his finger over his lips, “I’ve worked with him for nearly two decades now so it’s hard for me to turn him down. I spent about five years on the other side of the camera and he was great to work for back then. Started getting more demanding and lost credibility with a lot of actors,” his voice is lowering the longer he speaks, switching gears suddenly to wonder, “can I give you a couple pointers kid?”

“Well I mean I don’t really plan on doing this, you know, as a career.”

“You’ve got the looks for it. Redheads are pretty popular type, people think they’re crazy in the sack,” he shrugs, “you’ve got the body. Got the size. Sure, sets like this are an easy quick way to make a buck but you’ve gotta look out for your health too. If some sleaze-ball picks you up in a club and brings you straight to set chances are good they aren’t so much following community guidelines. A lot of people are okay with taking the word of actor about clean health. But I’m you, I demand paper proof of last swab. Most actors are more than willing to give them over, once you’ve worked with a few professionals you’ll know who’s trustworthy. And you’ll know by the amount of paperwork you fill out before you’re even allowed to set foot on the set whether or not it’s legit. Eventually you’ll have to catch as often as you pitch…”

“No,” his hands come up between them like even the thought of it is outrageous. Not on camera, being on the receiving end of what he was told to do yesterday, not in his book of fantasies. It’s enough to be on the receiving end of some overeager middle aged guy who’s still half in the closet and banging out his pent up aggression on him. 

“Just warning you kid. Like I said, you’ve got the looks, body. I’ve been in this industry for a long time. LA, Vegas are the places where you’ll find the most professional sets. Just so you know,” his voice drops to barely audible, jerking his thumb towards the bathroom door again, “don’t get too involved with Ned. Finish this film, and don’t come back. Don’t give him your contact info.”

The bathroom door opens and he stops, taking a sip of his coffee before telling Ian, “don’t use viagra either. It’ll make your face red and you’ve already got enough red happening on your body. There’s an injectable…”

“Woe. Stop there. I’m good.”

“Alright. Ready Milkovich?”

As he’s nodding, Ian interrupts, “I brought lube along. I thought it’d be…”

“Normally yes, it’s all over set,” camera guy responds, “couldn’t tell you why Ned doesn’t want it used anymore.”

“Wouldn’t people rather watch two people who are enjoying themselves?”

“How about you tell me in two to four hours when we’re done with this if you’re still enjoying yourself? Trying to stay hard, weird angles, weird positions. I don’t think anyone who’s watching gives a rat’s ass about enjoyment, maybe women,” shrugging, “just get to it.”

“Can I use lube?”

“Hell if I care. Just try to use it sparingly, if Ned thinks it’s more than spit he’ll probably cut everything we film tonight.”

“Okay,” his eyes scan over to the stocky raven-haired young man, fuck he wants to pleasure him relentlessly. Not the weird spanking and daddy-issues style shit. 

“Alright. You know what to do. Milkovich, you call cut any time you want.”

His response is non-verbal, but his brows shoot up in little questions marks of surprise.

“Person getting penetrated gets to call cut whenever they want. Ned’s not good at remembering that.”

“Fuck’s your name?”

“Todd.”

“Okay Todd. But I can take it, alright?”

“Alright. Your call.”

Shaking his head with annoyance, gorgeous eyes rolling before they land on Ian’s with a cocky nod, “get on me then.”

Jesus, his fucking eyes could make Ian do anything. He drops his robe and Ian feels his dick respond immediately. He’s got the look again, like Ian is his prey, and Ian doesn’t mind it one fucking bit. He half-cocks his head, waiting until Ian goes to him. Dropping to his knees next to the bed. His hands, tattooed fingers sliding the length of Ian’s cock, his tongue darting out, swirling around the tip of it before he sinks his mouth down, taking the whole thing deeply in his throat with ease. Ian’s fingers are already indenting the edge of the mattress, watching his eyes as he peers up at him with lust. Pulling back with his mouth, taking a moment to slide his grip up and down Ian’s shaft, lips working towards his balls. 

“Oh fuck,” he hears himself moan as he gently sucks on his sensitive ball bag. His fingers are getting tingly where they’re gripping the bed, his toes are curled under and heat is welling up in his belly. One hand slides under his balls, tenderly tugging downwards in slow rhythmic motions that match the grip on his cock. His eyes flicker upwards again and Ian can’t help himself from rocking into his hands. His beautiful pink tongue darts out of his perfect lips and trails up his shaft, that incredible flick against the tip before hungrily taking the whole of it in his mouth, “shit,” but he can’t warn him soon enough as his entire body spasms with pleasure, losing his load down that warm throat.

He looks like he was expecting it. Doesn’t even slow down. Making certain his cock his throbbing hard again before he backs off. Climbing into his lap, hands on his chest to push him back into the mattress. Leaning over him with the bright lights of the camera behind him, he’s haloed in glow, and he looks so fucking beautiful Ian thinks he must be the on his death bed, staring up at heaven as he seats himself, guiding Ian’s dick past the threshold of his body. Rocking gently, teasing the tip. Holy fuck, he must have done more in the bathroom than just take a piss. He’s so ready, he’s opened up and lubed, and he’s so fucking sexy just rocking back and forth like that. Hovering over Ian like he’s floating, hands on his chest providing just the right amount of pressure. 

He leans forward, Ian starts leaning up to meet him partway, wanting to lock lips so badly. But his hand moves to Ian’s throat, just enough to let him know without speaking that he needs to stay back. Rolling his hips. This tease is enough to have Ian shaking, that boiling heat balling up in his belly already. 

Oh shit, fuck, shit. He can’t do this. He can’t lay here watching this gorgeous man, feeling the heat of him, feeling the pressure of him, and not lose his fucking mind. Deep breath but spots are starting to rise in his vision. Sparkling across the image of the man leaning over him. His hands rise from his side, taking hold of his hips, sitting up quickly and pressing into his lips. He cannot be inside of this man without kissing him. Without feeling the heat of his lips. And he can’t be inside this man without knowing he’s feeling pleasure too. There’s a soft grunt that escapes his mouth as Ian’s tongue slides between his lips. But he doesn’t pull back. Everything about his body language is screaming don’t let me go. The way his hands have found Ian’s shoulder-blades, pressing every single fingertip into his flesh. The way his tongue has found Ian’s, teasing and caressing him at the same time. The way his thighs are clamping tight to Ian’s sides.

He seizes his legs, drawing him in as close as possible while leaning into him. Guiding him down to his back. Not breaking the kisses, not breaking the point of connection between them. Left hand slides down his thigh, finding his incredible ass and kneading at the perfectly fleshy muscled cheek that he left hand prints on last night. Vowing silently, ‘never again, never again will I leave handprints on your perfect flesh’. 

The kisses are getting deeper with every tender thrust into his body. His back arching in exactly the way Ian was craving. The most beautiful cock he’s ever seen rubbing against Ian’s stomach now with every wave crashing through his body. 

Right hand slipping through soft strands of raven hair. He feels the man’s breath catch in his throat and he wonders at how he could feel so complete all of a sudden. How he doesn’t even know his name, but he feels like he belongs in his arms. Leaning out of the kiss to be able to watch his face. His gorgeous pale skin without a single blemish. His facial features, it’s as though he was made from Ian’s wildest dreams. How is it possible he’s real? 

As his hand slides out from behind his head, tracing his cheek, his jaw, his lips. Those eyes flicker open again, ablaze with fiery passion and lust. His fingertips pressing against Ian’s back with fire and ice both scorching and frosting Ian’s flesh. A jolt of hot molten lava surging through his every vein. Goosebumps on the entirety of his body. His scalp tingling as his vision blurs and all he can process is getting his lips back on the ones he just left moments ago but it may as well have been an entire fucking lifetime. Lips parting immediately this time, welcoming Ian’s tongue without hesitation. 

His hips start rocking underneath Ian, tilting until there’s nothing left between them. Until every single part of Ian is inside of him before rolling away again. His universe is splitting, becoming nothing but the heat of this man, the taste of this man, the feel of him, the scent of him. His life becoming a before and after. Before this man it was dull, meaningless, just surviving one day only to enter another. But now it’s swirling colors, bright lights, every breath and every single minuscule moment is coated with this man’s presence. There will never be enough of him, and Ian will never feel like this anywhere else in this life. 

It’s so fucking clear. And when he gasps into Ian’s mouth and his body tenses, pulses, and clamps around Ian, blue flame meeting gasoline inside his body and the entire fucking world could be burning down around them, he’d not notice. His flesh could be melting, licked with flames, charred black and turned into ash on the floor; he’d not notice. 

Bodies slick with sweat, the heat and stickiness of the man’s orgasm between them. Only breaking the kiss for a breath of air. Leaning forehead to forehead. Feeling the man’s hand slide up his spine, laying flat agains the back of his head as they breathe together. A final gasp escapes his mouth when the last pulse of orgasm spills out of Ian. 

Choked, muffled cry seeping through the corner of his mouth before his hand releases the back of Ian’s head, meeting his face as he scampers haphazardly out from beneath him before Ian can even process the first inkling of reality coming back into the haze of still burning fire in his body. 

“Well that angle sucked,” Todd’s voice sounds like it’s a million miles away, “Ned is going to hate it. But it is exactly the kind of thing my wife would love, so maybe we keep it?”

“Fuck you mean?” tugging the discarded robe on his shoulders, his hands meeting his eyes, grinding hard before his palms flatten over his face, head dipped as he breathes towards the floor.

“Well, here’s the thing. Director isn’t here. You don’t have a contract with him, do you? You want your cash from last night, maybe we do something else tonight, something more his style. Maybe we tell him we fucked off when he was a no show and it’s up to him to get everyone back for the completion of his project. But this,” tapping on his camera, “marketed the right way, stuff like this could be incredibly popular with certain portions of consumers. My wife has always hated porn, says she’s rarely convinced both parties are enjoying themselves. She’s mostly right. Especially women in porn. If you’re looking for the right angles to present to the camera, then chances are they are not comfortable. Up to you, but if we take this to the right producer, could be a chance for a second payday.”  
Ian’s brain is too fucking hazy, glazed over with the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt in his life to be having any conversation of significance. He hasn’t even moved other than to sit back on his butt. His eyes are locked on the man beside the bed, who seems to be trying to disappear. His body is trembling and Ian prays to god it’s from pleasure. 

His breath cuts off in his chest, seemingly rolling the words around in his mouth before his lips open, “don’t,” voice shaking, clearing his throat, “don’t show that shit to Ned. Do whatever the fuck you want with it. Just don’t show it to Ned,” leveling Todd with his eyes while he starts backing away towards the door to what Ian can only assume is a dressing room. His eyes flit over Ian’s face, “you decide ‘bout tonight. I can take it,” certainty in his voice, resignation rising in his gaze. Ian fucking hates seeing that. He’s nowhere near innocent of selling his body for sexual desires but it’s always been his own choice, his own free-will. As the door closes slowly, he realizes fully that this young man has not sold his body of his own free-will. This was never his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex on the verge of love-making, that's what. I guess if you came here for smut then you've found it.
> 
> So Todd is sharing some information I've found in my travels. If I keep going with this, I'll let him continue to do so. 
> 
> Safe to say I'm letting Ian make the choice completely of his own free will to use his body for money - which he already does by stripping, so I don't think it's really a stretch of the imagination. And safe to say there's something deep and dark happening between Mickey and Ned. Fair warning - I've watched too much SVU and too much Criminal Minds in my life - so it will probably be something pretty screwed up. 
> 
> Holler at me if you want more.


	3. Never Be The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I wanna do?

Never Be The Same

 

“What?” laced with annoyance at the sound of Ian’s tapping on the door, “it’s open fuckface.”

Pushing it open apprehensively. He’s standing in the middle of the room in a lighter, more worn version of the robe Ian is wearing   
Hands clenched together in front of him, like he’s debating punching his way through the wall, or maybe just rubbing his knuckles. He decides on the latter, risen brows towards Ian, “the fuck you lookin’ at firecrotch?”

“Um, I just wanted to see,” those gorgeous eyes peering directly through his body to watch every single movement of his soul, “see what you want to do tonight,” he shrugs.

“What I wanna do?” brows creeping higher up his pale smooth forehead.

“Yeah. I mean,” fiddling now with the tie on his bathrobe, “if you want to finish this up, or…”

“What I wanna do,” this time it’s with a snicker, hands rising to rub along the surface of his face.

Ian’s gaze drops. What he probably wants to do is go to bed. Or have a drink. Or… scanning the room for any clues, “you have a dog?” wondering as his vision lingers on a kennel with an old worn blanket and half-stuffed pillow on the floor.

“No,” he snorts it, like who-the-fuck-would-keep-a-dog-in-a-kennel written all over his face.

“Why do you…”

“We doin’ this or not tough guy?”

Fuck, he wants to kiss him, “only if you…”

“I can take it,” he asserts.

“What the fuck?” that wasn’t supposed to be out loud, “I mean, why is, well… if you want to. But I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“The fuck you think I am? Some fuckin’ virgin? Needs coddling and a how-to?”

“No,” his focus drops again. Scanning over the dresser top. This room isn’t big enough to be a bedroom. Maybe it’s like a walk-in closet of some sort. Rich people, hearing himself sigh. Gaze catching on a photo. It’s small, finding himself taking a step towards it but the guy steps in front of him as his vision makes out two faces. One of which is the guy that’s blocked his view of the photo. The other looked like a girl. A girl with similar looks to his.

“We fuckin’ or not?” lips pursing tightly as his brows dart up to nearly his hairline. 

Ian doesn’t want to fuck this guy. This close to his face, fuck, his heart is picking up speed and throwing itself desperately at the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to fuck him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to feel the heat as his lips meet those perfect ones again. he doesn’t want to fuck him. He wants to lay him down a soft downy comforter and kiss every single inch of his pale gorgeous flesh. He wants his fingertips to caress every dimple, line, scar, muscle. He wants to watch, face to face, eye to eye, as their bodies meet as one. He wants to watch his eyes pressing themselves shut under the weight of too much pleasure as they rock together. He wants to feel his breath, hot and wanting, panting, gasping for air as they crash together. As they throw themselves together onto the shore of passion. A twelve foot wave churning up power and depth, a million instances of flesh on flesh as they arch together, beating their bodies in the sand on shore and shattering into trillions of water droplets splattering the earth. Only to be dragged back into the ocean again to relive that thrill, breathe that excitement while they put all their broken pieces back together just to climb that wave once again and throw themselves off of it. 

Everything else in the world is becoming muted and distant. Old yellowed photographs, peeling at the edges, fading and twisting away to nothing. Becoming sand through his fingertips, fingertips that are tenderly taking hold of his chin now. Tilting his lips.

What are you doing Ian? You going to kiss him? You’re getting paid to fuck him. But that’s not what you want. That’s not what he wants. Look at him. Look at those eyes. Those eyes are begging to be treated with love and respect, a gentle hand that maybe he’s never known before. 

‘Look at this face. He likes you. You don’t want to hurt his feelings now, do you?’

No. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t want to hurt him in any way. He wants to love him. And right now, he wants to kiss him.  
But he doesn’t want to just meet his lips with a fiery burning passion that will torch his home in the matter of minutes. Leaving him trembling and barren in the rubble. He wants to take his layers down slowly. Like a silkworm wrapped in it’s cocoon. This man has spent years weaving his shelter, placing every strand of silk exactly so to protect his heart inside the hardened shell of his exterior. And every single strand of silk is fine, smooth, and sweet on the tip of Ian’s tongue. Every single strand of silk will untangle slowly, evenly, gently until the delicate moth emerges of it’s own free will. Extending it’s pale white flightless wings under the glow of the moon.

He hears a low moaning sob emitting from the man’s mouth, stifled into his own and he feels himself being backed into the bedroom where the cameras and lights are still set up. Hands grasping and removing the robe from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as he’s backed up over it. He feels his own hands delicately sliding the cotton garment off the broad muscled shoulders of the man steering him. Hearing it drop to the floor in a discarded heap. 

The kisses are gaining desperation. The heat against his mouth, against his tongue overpowering his urge to take over the control of this room. Wanting to get up and tell the staff to leave. Wanting to seize this man in his arms, lay him down gently and trail his body until the sun has painted the sky in shades of morning, until it’s hung high in the noon sky, until it’s begun it’s descent once again; plunging this city in darkness only to be buzzing with the lights of manmade construction and noise. The electricity running though his body under the feel of this man’s fingers is more than enough to bring this city to the brink of disaster, surging through him powerfully, uncontrollably as the man’s mouth leaves his. 

No, no, he wants to say it. Call out to him, come back. But he’s struck mute by the aching map of heat and lips that are being imparted on his sweat glazed skin. He feels his body arching towards the man’s mouth, being swept into him like a whirlpool of lust. Drawn towards his soul’s center through the flitting of his tongue against his surface. 

Every single part of Ian’s universe has begun to crumble, the man’s fingertips burning brands into his flesh. Every single inch of his flesh, ‘mine, mine, mine’ under the pressure of his hands. An aching haunting whisper in his ear that he will never be the same. This will never feel the same again. This will never happen with any other man on this Earth. 

‘You will always be mine’, wicked and beautiful, spinning slow across the surface of his blue irises as his eyes lock onto Ian’s and he takes his cock down his warm wet throat. He hears himself gasp, watches the spots and colors swirling in the air around his head. Starting to rise on his face as he leans to the side and spreads Ian’s thighs open with his rough calloused hands. Fingers, palms sliding down the tender sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Gentle but determined. And maybe Ian was wrong earlier. He’s not the one slowly pulling away the silk ropes. He’s not the one gently removing every single layer of web, every single delicate strand when woven together make something so strong and resilient. Maybe it’s not this man who is cocooned himself into his own safe haven. Maybe it’s Ian. Maybe it’s Ian who needs to be unwrapped fragile layer by fragile layer. 

Blood rushing in his ears, heart thumbing and thudding wildly as the man’s finger, already slick with lube, slides past the threshold of Ian’s body. In the same gentle rhythm as his cock sliding in and out of his throat. Every single inch of him alive with tingles, trailing up his spine, combing through the hair on the back of his head, reaching out to grasp his crown and pull his head back. Neck arching as he gasps for breath, exhaling towards the ceiling while his lids glue themselves shut and he feels a second finger. 

Trembling already under the touch of this man, his free hand sliding across the flat hollowed plain of Ian’s throat, fingertips over his lips, across his cheek, another brand on his flesh. ‘Mine. Mine. Mine.’ Devilish and heavenly as his fingertips slither over his jaw. 

He feels himself rocking back onto the hand beneath him as his face turns to find the hand on his cheek. Pressing his lips into the heat of the man’s palm as his third finger makes space inside Ian’s body with a breathy moan exiting his mouth. 

He is standing on the precipice of life and death. Life, green and blue and stunning with lights and sounds and colors of daylight. Death, dark and terrifying but equally beautiful and welcoming. A swirling of stars and northern lights across the pitch darkness of his eyelids as he hears himself whispering, “please,” into the hand against his lips, “please.”

His mouth traveling the length of Ian’s undulating body, branding him once more, leaving prints, outlines of love and lust and passion under the heat of his lips. Promising again and again, ‘you will never be the same’. 

His face is soft, pale; eyes bright, wanton across the irises he watches it happen. As he lowers his taut muscled body over Ian’s, he watches it happen as he nods his go-ahead to this man and he presses his incredible cock into Ian’s body with a breathy whisper of another promise, ‘you will be a part of me’. He watches it swirled in a big bang of lights, energy, the splitting of atoms and the burning of the universe. An eruption of stars, blindingly bright moons and planets. Everything hanging by the string of this man’s eye contact and the heat of his breath against Ian’s lips when he rises to meet him. When his hand finds the back of his head and draws his lips closer, parting and swallowing his life from his very body. Spiraling on the tip of his tongue, unwrapping those strings of silk, devouring them. 

His hands on the plains, hills, valleys, gentle slopes of a continent he’s never travelled but is somehow intimately familiar with. Burning in a controlled fire the old grasslands, setting them ablaze and scattered madly to the winds. Scorched Earth and the smell of soot and ash. Consuming every living thing in it’s path. Only to be brought back to life a new green, a new birth, a new chance. Appearing under the torrid flesh of his fingertips once again is a new hope, a new home, a new place to belong against his lips, encircled in his grip, beneath the gentle rocking sway of his pelvis as he dives deeper inside Ian, tearing away more silk, shredding it away from his soul, leaving him bare for his taking. 

Take it. Take everything I have to offer. And more. Take all. It’s yours. All of it is yours. And I will never be the same.

Exhales mingling in the minuscule space between their lips when the man draws nearer. His eyes being masked by the surging of those bright lights once again before Ian’s eyes press closed at the contact of his lips. His heart is beating wildly in the back of his throat, back arching off the bed and the heated pool in his stomach is twisting towards the man above him as he moves. 

That precipice of life and death is becoming a distant destination that was once visible in his rearview mirror as the man’s grasp tightens around his hips, his body weight slides into Ian’s chest and Ian’s chest becomes an open wound in the surface of the Earth. A canyon, layers of rock, sand, dirt and destroyed life in the crevices of his flesh. Open and exposed for the taking by this man’s soul. 

Take it. Take it please. Take it all. As the heat inside his body starts to rise to the surface in pulses of hot, smoldering pleasure between them like lava bonding their flesh together forever, seeping into the empty broken places of one another, cauterizing the open wounds left by life in the fleshy armor of their beings. All the bone and blood things they once were lying broken in a melting pool of magma between them. 

I will never be the same. 

Echoing and reverberating through every single nerve, every layer of silk torn away and left lying on the bed at his feet as he draws in a sharp breath and collapses on top of Ian. His head finding refuge under Ian’s chin as he breathes. Goosebumps rising across Ian’s bare, sweat-slicked skin under the breeze of this man’s soul. Another promise of ‘you will never be the same’.

I don’t want to be the same. Not anymore. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I guess I don't really have a direction for this yet (but a couple clues) so I'll just throw some nice smut at you while you wait.


	4. Damn Amateurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what's Todd doing while these two are traveling continents, watching a big bang, and swallowing each other's souls? Well, he's contemplating his career choice. 
> 
> Fair warning - I might pop some porn fantasy bubbles with this chapter. I've personally never had a porn fantasy, so when I read the article that I took a lot of this information from, I was just thinking 'yeah well that makes sense'.

Damn Amateurs 

 

He lets the breath he didn’t realize he was holding pass his lips slowly, quietly. Feeling as though he’s just witnessed some kind of sacred act and if he makes himself known the magic quality in the air will dissipate. 

He hates amateurs. Not because they lack talent or drive. But because they’re too bright and sparkling with hope and a need for enjoyment. He hates to be the one to remove the wool from their eyes in this industry. An industry born of an act that can be sacred, intense, religious, powerful. But more often than not is just two horny people bumping and grinding until they get the desired friction for climax. And in this industry it’s simply a way to pay the bills, a stepping stone to stardom, a few years of fucking and blowing, being climaxed on and at, having orifices stuffed with something that turns someone somewhere on enough to pay for the degradation. Depends on how far the actor wants to go, but if someone is willing to pay, then bending over is usually worth it. Or putting an appendage inside an orifice and pretending to be so turned on by something that you have no desire to even see much less be up close and personal with. 

Internet porn changed the game. Times of sneaking into the backroom at the video store are long gone, giggling and covering your mouth as your first girlfriend points at a cover with a huge-breasted woman in red lingerie suggestively licking her finger. Her legs spread to show deeply tanned and oiled thighs, a barely hidden bush under a lace wrapper that you can only assume will be unwrapped in the first ten minutes of the film. Or at least it better be unwrapped in the first ten minutes otherwise sliding it under your winter coat while your girlfriend asks the lone clerk for help finding a copy of Romeo+Juliet and talks his ear off about how exited she is to see it and how much she loves Leonardo DiCaprio, won’t be worth it. And it won’t be worth it to sneak into your parents’ bedroom while they’re out at their company Christmas party, but theirs is the only bedroom in the house with a VHS player, and fucking on their bed has always been a fantasy of your girlfriend with weird daddy issues, because don’t they all have daddy issues when they’re sixteen and actively fucking everything with a penis that even looks their direction?

And you’ll feel weird and mildly sick when the woman lets the plumber into her house to check her pipes and he ends up checking so much more than her pipes, and her bush will mildly terrify you but your girl is into it so you have to act into it. And then you’re eighteen and looking for a job, dreaming of being an actor, even just a soap actor when you don’t get called back for like the hundredth audition but some guy slips you a business card on your way out the door. It doesn’t take long to realize he’s a porn producer when you stop by his office and when he tells you that you can make money by fucking hot horny women between auditions and before your big break, you think to yourself that sounds pretty fucking amazing. But then your big break never comes and you spend five years fucking fake-breasted, fake-orgasming, fake-lipped women who hate being on set even more than you do. And you start doing gay porn because it pays more but you really hate being on set there too because most of the actors are straight and you’re mostly straight and in all honesty shoving things in your ass has never been your strong suit. Enemas and anal bleaching become a thing you get used to. You inject your penis because viagra is not recommended, you don’t use condoms because they cause tears in the vaginal tissue that is already being so pounded and painfully angled that even your stomach twists when she moans out a fake orgasm and you’re certain it’s only a hum to keep herself from screaming. And it’s only been a half hour while she’s already doing this, in that half hour you’ve maybe gotten three minutes of usable footage and you need at least twenty minutes usable before the director will send you home for the day. And contrary to popular culture belief there is no fluffer, you have to maintain your hard-on by yourself and it’s so hard to do when you’re so fucking hungry and your muscles are achy from holding weird positions and you’re thirsty but calling cut for a piss break is so unprofessional. 

And then there’s the fetish scenes. And they smell bad. And you can’t take enough showers to wash that shit off your conscience because you’d never imagined yourself ball-gagged and demeaned but it paid more so you did it because it couldn’t be that much different than having anal when you weren’t really into anal but it paid more and you needed a damn job while you waited for your big break. 

And your big break never did fucking come. But you did wash plenty of cum, real and fake, out of your hair, and out of your nostrils, and off your eyelashes and out of your ass. And for a mostly straight guy you certainly took a lot of dick in your ass. 

And the piss. Golden showers. The squirts that were rarely ever real female ejaculate and mostly were piss. And putting stranger’s feet in your mouth and eating a pussy that some other guy just had his dick in, and eating ass even though you can’t even remember her name only that she has a two year old daughter and a husband of five years. 

And the dialogue. And every time you deliver a line you wonder if anyone has ever once said that to a woman and not been slapped across the face for it. And if they don’t get slapped across the face for it, they should because that shit is degrading. And every time a chick gags on your cock you feel guilty and can’t figure out why guys get turned on by that shit. And you want to pull her head away from your dick by her hair, tilt her face back, and tell her that yes, she is worth more than this shit. And one day you finally do, you do say that and she cries. And you get fired and you decide no way in hell you’ll ever set foot in front of a camera again to film a damn porno. 

And then the industry changes with the availability of free porn at the fingertips of anyone with an internet connection. And everyone has an internet connection. And then it’s data and smart phones and it’s everywhere. And anyone can film and upload porn. 

And you catch yourself wondering if it’s like the old argument about violence? Violence on cable, violence on networks, violence on video games and prime time television. And the more we’re surrounded by it, is it truly the less impactful it becomes on our brain chemistry? And you wonder if that’s what happens with porn. If we’re presenting these weird angles as the best thing this woman has ever felt, does that mean people will believe it? Will they believe that it’s supposed to the best angle for the most intense orgasm when really it hurts like hell, but they’re supposed to enjoy it because the girl in the movie with the plump lips and the perfectly styled quaff of hair and the men lined up around the block to get their slice of her pie, she enjoys it. So all girls should enjoy it. 

And there’s the teen boy and the cougar MILF that he’s supposed to enjoy because what teen boy shouldn’t enjoy pussy? Any pussy will do. And the gang bangs and DPs and does any person, anywhere honestly truly enjoy taking a hot load on their face? And it makes you wonder if five years of filming these meaningless scenes with strangers means you’ll never enjoy the company of a woman ever again? Will you constantly be waiting for her to talk dirty, and ask you to blow your wad on her face, and put your cock in her tight ass, and fist her pussy? Will you be waiting for her to invite her girlfriends over for some dildo testing and your guy friends over for a train? 

Or once you’re wired that way can you really just cut that wiring and build it back up from the start with a woman you love, one who likes it missionary. One who likes it gentle and doesn’t want your big cock in her tight ass. She wants to be kissed and fondled and treated like a human fucking being just like the rest of us. And once she knows you filmed porn for five years will she think she could never compare to all those other women? Will she think she needs to push her own level of tolerance and comfort to satisfy your needs? 

But one day you find her. And she’s the most incredible and gorgeous woman you’ve ever met and she’s funny and brash. She’s half wild and half tame. She’s a riot with a loud laugh and whisper soft smile. Her idea of a wild night in the bedroom is bringing her little bullet vibrator into the mix while you lazy-dog her into a quiet oblivion. And that’s totally fucking fine with you. You don’t want to bite her or hold her face down on your dick until she gags. You don’t want to put anything in her ass unless she asks you to. You don’t even want to titty fuck her because you’d rather press your lips against her breasts while you gently rock into her pelvis and her breath travels in pleasured huffs through the hair on the top of your head. 

And now, now you just watched something similar to that. 

But now you have to interrupt their post-love-making glazed worlds and tell them, “we might have gotten about two minutes of usable footage there. Milkovich, you paid enough attention to your angles for the prep work at least. Lost it from there.”

But now they’ve made love, or something that certainly looked a lot like it. So asking them to do the ass-slapping and the name-calling and the dirty talk will be even less acceptable. 

Todd sighs, leaning back, raising his eyes to Jerry, “you get much?”

Jerry’s square shoulders shrug, “maybe two or three minutes max,” the face is the tricky part. The face is where the actor needs to show enjoyment to a point of over-enthusiasm, make it believable through the winces of pain and discomfort and often times embarrassment. But no man wants to watch man-on-man with intense eye contact and soft gentle expressions of longing. Hell, men rarely want to watch kissing scenes. They just want penetration and a cum shot. Or do gay men?

They even awake? Doesn’t look like it. Great. 

“Yo, lovebirds,” reaching out to tap Milkovich’s ankle. 

He startles hard. Jumping off the bed, backing himself into a corner. Eyes wildly scanning the room for threat until he gains his bearings and clenches his fists at his sides. Deep breath while he reaches for the haphazardly tossed robe on the floor. 

Todd hates this kid. Not because of who he is, always angry and looking for someone to punch or scared out of his mind and backing himself into a corner. He hates him because of the truth in his eyes in those moments when they’re wild and he’s waiting for the next boot to connect with his ribs. He hates him because whoever the fuck made him that way is probably still around. He probably still goes home at night to whoever it is that makes him wake in a cold sweat with the feel of their hands on his penis and their breath on his neck. 

He has no idea how old he is. Assuming he’s eighteen if Ned got his consent, but he’s not entirely certain Ned is doing anything legally anymore. He never used to be like this. He used to be one of the best to work with. Who knows what did it, maybe a mid-life crisis, maybe a drunk wife who fucks the pool boys right in front of his face, maybe the second mortgage to pay for his third Porsche, maybe his shithead son who got his dime for med school and then took off to Costa Rica with some hoodrat. Rich people problems.

He can’t remember when the first time was he laid eyes on this kid. Noticed him over a year ago hanging out on set. Ned kept giving him pointers like he was studying to become a porn star. But Milkovich didn’t ever look very interested. He just always looked unimpressed and sometimes kind of scared. Fuck, whatever, probably some street kid that Ned picked up as a replacement for his son who took off. Took him home and his wife rejected him. Who knows? Not his place to find out. 

His eyes scan over to the ginger kid. He’s barely moved, just leaned himself up on one elbow to watch Milkovich. 

HIs thumb is rubbing along the bridge of his nose, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, trying to pretend none of that shit that just happened actually happened. 

He wants to shake the kid. He wants to get up, walk over there, take him by the shoulders and shake him. Force him to tell him, tell him what’s made him this way. Cowering in fear like a whipped dog, then ready to bite at any hand that reaches out for any reason.   
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” he finally asks the orange kid.

He shrugs, pulling the sheet over his lap, like it matters. Everyone in this room has seen all he has to offer already, and no one even knows his name. What a joke of a career choice. Should have gone into banking. Standing behind a teller line for eight hours a day faking smiles at assholes who think it’s your fault they’re too stupid to balance their fucking checkbook. Just to work your way up to member services where people are too stupid to figure out how to log into their online banking and the security that’s in place is just to confuse them not protect them, and that’s your fault too. Or loans, yeah, so you can be blamed for them fucking their credit up when they were nineteen and bought a car they couldn’t afford, so now they can’t get approved for a mortgage. Sounds fuckin’ awesome.

Fuck it, sitting behind a camera and telling people how to fuck. Guess that’s it. Guess that’s how it’ll go. Keeps a roof over his head.

“Alright boys,” standing up with a long stretch, “I’m havin’ a smoke. Got ten minutes to drain your tanks, wash out that round of splooge and get hard. What do you got? Like one more round a piece before we’ll have to start using fake loads? Better make this one count.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered a few things about myself though writing fan fiction. First, I can't write porn. Smut - meh, sure. Love - yes. Second, I can't seem to leave anything at just a tiny story. I want to bite off a giant piece of a shit sandwich and make people fight for their happiness. Third, I can't ever seem to avoid a happy ending. 
> 
> I swear I will keep this one under 100K words though. 
> 
> I also hope this never comes off as judgy. My take on life is - if it floats your boat then keep right on floating and enjoy the hell out of it. I just can't convince myself that Ian and Mickey would be into smacking and choking, I think their lives outside of the bedroom are violent and uneasy enough. I feel like the bedroom is the place they'd be willing to give into whatever tender urges they have.


	5. The Promise Of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After filming. And going home.

The Promise Of Summer

 

“So, um,” Ian folds the sheet over top of the comforter, tucking the edges tight under the mattress, eyes daring to wander to the face across the bed from him, “what’s your name?”

“Fuck’s it matter?” 

Good fucking lord, his eyes are gorgeous, he shrugs, “just curious. I mean we spent the last six hours fucking each other,” he half smiles.

“Call me whatever the fuck you want. Don’t matter.”

Smoothing the clean blanket down flat as he watches him rolling the dirty ones into a hamper. Ian’s head is spinning, body is floating, feels like he’s at least a hundred feet off the ground. Every time he looks at this guy he can’t help but smile. And he doesn’t even know his name, “you take the L home?”

“Huh?” arms crossed over his chest that’s still bare.

“Um, I can walk with you to the L if you…”

He snorts a laugh, loud enough to interrupt him but his face doesn’t look amused, “move on ginger. I’ll see you tomorrow,” head tilting towards the door.

“Tomorrow?”

“Uh yeah, ‘less you got paid. I’m guessin’ you’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s…”

“Door’s right there,” eyebrows shot up to their height.

“Alright Neptune,” grinning slyly at him.

Those gorgeous blue eyes narrowing, “Neptune?” unimpressed.

“You know - blue planet, Roman god of the sea?”

“You know - fuck off,” making walking motions with his fingers towards the door but half a smirk is rising.

The Great Dark Spot, that’s the name of the storm on Neptune. There’s a permanent great dark spot on the surface of those eyes, and fuck, it’s breathtaking, “alright. I’ll…”

“Oh kitten,” the sound of a lock in the door just down the hall, “Daddy’s home,” as it swings open. 

The expression has gone from mildly amused to mildly afraid, to completely stoney in a split second before it breaks into a soft smile as the old guy steps inside the bedroom doorway.

“My milky little kitten, Daddy had a long day,” his eyes make their way over to Ian where he’s frozen, “oh. Your friend is still over,” he smiles and something about it makes Ian’s guts clench and flip flop, “gingersnap,” he says it with an air of superiority followed by his tongue running the length of his upper lip, “you get my kitten to purr tonight?” he’s stepping towards the young man, sliding an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close. Mumbling something in his ear before he sucks on the lobe of it for a moment. His hand rises to stroke his jaw, turning his face, leaning into a kiss. 

It makes Ian’s skin crawl. Those lips, those warm perfectly soft lips were just on his. Just moments ago and Ian felt like they were drawing the life from his body. He shudders, realizing fully that he just easily and irreversibly fell for a taken man. Fuck, no one can tell him that he didn’t feel things too. And what the fuck is a guy his age doing with an old man? Money or something?

He turns his focus to the door, hoping he can just slide out without being noticed. He should be able to, the way the old guy is devouring that gorgeous face, his gross old-man hands traveling the bare smooth flesh of his back and taking handfuls of asscheek through his shorts. Ian’s breath catches in his throat at the thought of those asscheeks. 

“Mmm,” breaking off the gross make-out, “did you get the spanking you deserve you naughty boy, or does Daddy need to finish you off?”

Fuck. He side steps, holding his breath, hoping he can just disappear through that doorway.

“Where you going so fast gingersnap? Boyfriends are always welcome to stay when Daddy’s home.”

“No thanks, I’ve got, um, I gotta get going,” his eyes linger on Neptune’s, not wanting to look away, not wanting to leave him standing here. But what the fuck? He’s a grown man, he can leave whenever he wants. If he’s just using this old guy for money, he can find it elsewhere. Fuck, if Ian just fell for a guy who’s after money, then he doesn’t stand a chance.

————

He nearly fell asleep on L ride home. He’s so fucking tired. Emotionally drained. He keeps looking at his hands like they hold the secrets to life, like now that they’ve traveled to a foreign country on the surface of Neptune’s flesh, they’ve become wise in ways the rest of Ian has yet to achieve. 

“Hey Ian. Hear anything from Lip yet?” V is sitting on the front step of their house, drinking coffee, watching the morning commuters going by on the street. Something she does every single day, no matter the weather.

“Nope,” it’s been six weeks this time.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“Yeah, that’s what we all thought about Fi too. And it’s been, what? Two years now.”

She nods, a shadow crossing her mocha irises before her usual upbeat persona takes over again, “well, sure Frank’s due for an appearance any day now. That’ll take your mind off your problems real quick.”

“Yeah. Always,” he sighs. Fuck Frank. Fuck Fiona for leaving with that asshole Jimmy/Steve or whatever the fuck his name was. Fuck Lip for being bipolar and not taking his damn meds, appearing and disappearing just like Monica. Fuck Monica, “I take it no one burned the house down?”

“Nope. Never heard a peep,” stretching her fingers along the warm mug in her hands before her eyes drop, watching Ian’s feet at the gate, a debate raging inside her head. It won’t stay inside for long.

Fuck, he doesn’t know what he would do without them, “just say it,” he urges.

Heavy sigh, eyes darting to the car parked on the curb, “been there all night.”

His hand rises, rubbing the surface of his face as anger twists in his stomach, “fuck. I told her…”

“Ian, go easy on her. She’s sixteen. You were stupid when you were sixteen too.”

“I still am stupid. But I can’t get pregnant,” stalking through the gate, up the steps. When Ian was sixteen he was fucking the manager at the corner store. Dreaming of Westpoint and fucking other cadets under the bleachers. Then his family self-destructed, completely. And left him here. Right here. Standing on the porch with his hand on the doorknob trying to calm some rage, trying to sort some of the shit in his head. Trying to squash all the questions running rampant in his mind from the things he’s just done to keep this fucking roof over their heads, keep the kids in clothes and fed, and in school. And now? Knowing now, that while he was selling every single fucking inch of his body to keep them together; his sixteen year old sister was being stupid and reckless, having a boy spend the night after he sat down with her two years ago and explained the difference between what teen boys want and what teen girls think teen boys want. And he kept reminding her, and he kept the door open, and he asked her questions and has been active in her social life. As active as he can be between working at the corner store during the day, stripping at night, and squeezing three hours (if he’s lucky) of sleep somewhere into the day while the kids are at school before he has to make dinner and walk them through their homework and get them ready for bed and call V to make sure she knows he’s leaving, and then go out and sell his fucking body to whoever will buy it so he can come back home in the grey hours of the morning just to start it all over again. And fuck. 

Fuck. Last night, watching those gorgeous eyes, feeling the heat of his touch, the passion in his kisses, feeling so fucking complete like he was just always that piece that was missing, maybe Ian didn’t even know it was missing, but now that he’s found it, it just fucking hurts to know it’s missing. But last night, being one whole being, fuck, it felt like it was okay. It felt like all the shit he’s been doing in the last months turning into years, felt like somehow it mattered. Like somehow there was something worth working towards, not just an endless supply of days falling into days fading into nights without a single semblance of satisfaction and happiness. 

Fuck. For good measure his fist meets the spring-flex wall target he spent his last forty bucks on three months ago when he realized it was time to wall mount a punching target or risk knocking Debbie’s teeth out. So he splurged on something for himself and then ended up missing the payment for school lunches. He should fucking know better by now anyway. But dental work is expensive and if he ever did hit Debbie, that would be the day the social worker showed up for one of her surprise visits. But sometimes, sometimes that seems like the better option anyway. Send the kids to foster care. Sometimes he wonders if they’d be better off there. End up with a couple like Kev and V who can’t have their own kids, but have the love in their hearts for a whole fucking school bus full of kids to live under their roof. 

He sighs, leaning against the wall at the base of the stairs, trying to breathe this out for just a moment. Those stupid breathing exercises that V is always telling him to work on. It’s just that his anger in the last two years, it’s gotten so fucking hard to control. And he’s so afraid that some day it’ll come out on the one person who deserves it the least. If there was guarantee that it would come out when Frank just so happened to be mouthing off, that’d be okay, that’d be legitimate, that’d be acceptable. And it would feel so fucking good. 

But for now, breathing for a moment will have to do.

Sure, that’s all well and good until he opens Debbie’s bedroom door and gets an eyeful. They didn’t bother putting their clothes back on. Didn’t bother throwing the used condoms in the trash. But at least there’s that. Kid that’s in her bed looks like he hasn’t bothered with a shower in three weeks. A haircut in about three months. He’s skinny street kid muscled, and he has a tattoo. Fucking great. Either he’s eighteen or he’s done time. Or has a fake, but everyone in the South Side has a fake. 

Nope, the breathing didn’t do it. He can feel it rising from the tips of his toes. His sore, achy body, all the positioning and hard-to-hold angles, six fucking hours of fucking after a full shift at the club. Yeah, he’s fucking tired. But he doesn’t get to be tired and that pisses him off more than the image of this sketchy kid with his arm flung over his sister’s hips. Or does it?

Fuck if he knows. He just knows he’s fucking pissed. And if it’s not at Debbie and her sleaze ball boyfriend, and it’s not at Fiona and her sleaze ball boyfriend, and if it’s not at Lip and his fucking bipolar, and if it’s not at Carl and having to meet with the principal again for the fucking cherry bomb in the toilet, and if it’s not at Liam for biting a kid on the playground for calling him a negroid. Well it’s definitely not at Liam, that kid deserved to get bit. So if it’s not them and it’s not that gorgeous man that reached inside Ian’s chest and pulled forth his still beating heart, making him realize once again that yes it is still fucking beating and he’s not just a zombie walking around on the face of this planet searching for some kind of meaning in a sea of meaningless nothing. Then it’s at himself. 

Fuck. He should have just got on that bus on his eighteenth birthday. It wasn’t Westpoint, but who was he kidding? He didn’t have the math grades for officer’s school. But it was a fucking purpose and it was a ticket out of the South Side. And it was a chance to make a career, one he could be proud of. He could see some shit, some real shit. Even if it was a shithole half a world away with the same shit problems as the shithole he’s been stuck in for his entire life. The same but different, human condition is human condition whether there’s plumbing and heating and refrigeration or not. And sometimes he wonders if he’d be better off destitute with three younger siblings on the streets of a country where every single fucking person is destitute because maybe they look out for each other, maybe it takes a village over and the damn village is willing to give whatever they have left just to make some sense of family structure, just to have someone, anyone to depend on and not feel fucking guilty as hell about it. Ian has Frank. Depending on Frank is like depending on a row boat that’s missing the entire hull and the oars are floating away on the horizon. And Ian has Kev and V who are barely scraping by trying to keep the bar afloat and sometimes they need him to cover shifts just so they can make it to their fucking appointments with their social worker because they want so badly to adopt a baby. But a fucking baby is hard to come by, and a failing business, a shithole house in a shithole neighborhood and a fuck ton of rich white people from the North Side are a lot to fucking compete with. 

And they’d be such good parents. And fuck it. He goes in quickly, taking a handful of greasy oily hair and yanking the kid out of bed onto the floor but not letting go of his hair as his still clad foot connects with his kidneys and the kid is getting one rude fucking awakening and so is his spoiled little bitch of a sister who doesn’t have the slightest fucking clue what he goes through for her, for her every single fucking day of every single fucking week, and here she is all cuddled up in bed with some piece of shit who wants nothing more from her than a warm hole to stick his dick in. 

Threats of killing him and coming back later with his brothers, and his dad’s sawed-off, are falling on deaf ears. Deaf because all Ian can hear is a resounding chorus of fuck-you’s in his head. Round and around, swirling in echoes and words, letters, clouds in white on a blue sky blanket, twinkling stars on a pitch black night. All of them are, “fuck you,” as he drags the kid out the door by his hair, and Debbie is throwing her clothes on and running behind him as he jolts the kid down the stairs, bouncing off the baseboard that’s already lose and clambering off the landing to the floor with a thud and a muffled groan. And Ian doesn’t fucking care if he breaks the kid’s neck right now. He doesn’t care if the kid comes back and blows his fucking brains out of his head, it might make a nice splatter painting on the ugly walls of this house and then maybe somebody would fucking clean them. 

He doesn’t care that Debbie is clawing at his arm and screaming at him. He doesn’t care that he just heard Carl’s feet hit the floor and start scampering across the hallway above them. He doesn’t care that Liam is about to witness this and no seven year old should witness this, but it’s the South Side and he might as well learn that pretty fuckin’ quick. He doesn’t care that he’s pretty sure Debbie just bit him. 

He doesn’t care that the kid is still naked when he shoves him out the front door and lands a tread in the middle of his back to roll him down the porch steps. He is just tired. He is so fucking tired. And now he wants to sit down. 

Damp, cool, early Spring seeping through the butt of his jeans immediately. Reminding him of how sore his ass is. And probably will be for at least the next twenty four hours, even if he doesn’t go back there tonight. Fuck, he has to go back there tonight. He didn’t get paid yet. And those eyes, god damn it, those eyes.

He props his elbows on his knees and watches with the blur of exhaustion as Debbie kneels beside her battered boyfriend, cooing something stupid at him and helping him with his clothes as he keeps saying over and over, “your brother is a fucking psycho.”

Guess he hasn’t done time then. He’d know what a psycho was if he had. Ian went on a tour of the prison about a year ago, thinking maybe it was a career he was capable of having, the training was less intense than law enforcement, the benefits were good, the pay was enough. That was back when Lip was still around and he could have left for a few weeks for the training process, he could have worked swing shift, he could have had a career because he didn’t have to do it all alone. He could have a job where he didn’t have to call in sick every time one of the kids did something stupid, he didn’t have to be late for shifts because Carl started a fire in the kitchen and he had to put it out on his way out the door. He could have a job. A real job. Not some stripping gig where it really didn’t matter what time he showed up for his shift, it was just less money in his pocket the less time he was there. But management didn’t give a shit, and if they did, well it was easy enough to blow him to get him off Ian’s back. Or let him get on Ian’s back and ride out his frustrations for being a piece of shit who owns a fucking gay club that hires underaged dancers and turns his head to the prostitution happening in the backrooms. 

Either way, prison. Fuck that. One of the guards was in an empty cell spraying human shit out of a vent. The inmate was bored, so he packed his shit into the air vent. He did this for months. Until the cell was so fucking horrid that they had no choice but to move him and his cellmate. Not that it would stop him from packing his shit into the vent in his next cell. Probably some scheme to get solitary. Too bad solitary is always full. Full of guys like the one that had cut a hole in his own abdomen, started slowly stringing his intestines out, like birthday streamers. State spent a bunch of money to repair his guts. He got back to prison, and did it again. 

Fucking dudes for money. Or cleaning shit out of an air vent with a garden hose. 

Learning how to kill to survive, sleep in foxholes, carry eighty pounds of gear, be away from home long enough to get lonesome. That was what Ian wanted. To be the fuck away from home. To be the fuck away from home in a place where maybe he could get taken out quickly and painlessly with an IED. Instead of getting shot during a drive-by, or mugged and beat to death under the L, or end up OD’ed in the gutter. Of course, he could end up getting blown to bits in the desert overseas and manage to survive. Legless and missing the head of his dick, trying like hell not to put a bullet in his head. 

Fucked for life. Here or there, doesn’t make a difference. But Jesus fucking Christ it didn’t feel that way last night. When his Neptune was tucking his head under Ian’s chin, when his inky black smooth as silk hair was tickling his neck, when his breath was warm and moist against his bare skin, when Ian’s body was shaking with something he’d never fucking felt before in his life. When he was trembling from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and he never wanted it to fucking end. 

It just didn’t feel so bad then. 

“Smooth,” Carl’s voice that sounds like it’s dropped another goddamn octave over night filters into his mind, dragging him back down to Earth from wherever the fuck he was just floating. Maybe in Neptune’s Great Dark Spot. It was better than here.

Here on the front porch watching Debbie getting into the front seat of some guy’s car with a duffle bag strewn over her shoulder and a middle finger hanging out the window as he screeches away from the curb. Guess wherever he was, he was gone for awhile. 

They’re standing in the doorway. Carl’s hands on Liam’s shoulders, giving these little pulses of comfort every now and again. Maybe he just chased off their mother-figure. 

“Get ready for school,” is all that will come out of his mouth. It’s all that needs to come out of his mouth. Maybe he should boot them out of the nest too. Boot them out and go join the Marines. Now there’s a sure fire way to go to the Middle East and get fucking blown to bits. Body parts left behind in the desert sand. A set of dog-tags and a folded up flag the only thing left for his family. A twenty-one gun salute and an empty casket. 

His eyes land on Liam’s. They’re like tree bark in spring. All dark and heavy, about to come alive with the promise of summer. Seven years old. That’s eleven more years. Eleven more years until Ian can do something for himself. By himself. Eleven more years until he can do something selfish as fuck. By then he’ll be too old to join the military. Too old to go to school. Too old to keep stripping and fucking for money. Maybe that’s when he’ll end up a prison guard. 

Sounds fucking great. There’s a piece of gravel under his palm. It’s been digging into layers of flesh since he leaned back. Just enough pain to remind him that he’s here as his eyes rise to find Carl’s. That little serial-killer gleam in them. That’ll become a real serial-killer gleam if just one more person walks out on him. Fourteen years old. Long enough to remember Monica's last stay, the perfectly precarious age when Fiona bailed, and perceptive enough to realize that they can’t love Lip enough to make him stay either.

“Jesus Christ, I said get ready for school,” but it lacks bite. It just sounds so godawful tired. 

“It’s Saturday,” Carl shrugs. Knuckles white on Liam’s shoulders. Holding too tight. 

It stings behind his eyes, “then go play video games or something,” and it twists in his guts.

They both shrug, Liam’s being mostly stifled by Carl’s grip.

“Then,” it comes out kind of like a sob, he clears his throat, “go get your gloves. We’ll go down to Wrigley and see if we can snag a couple foul balls before we get kicked out.”

The promise of summer has just been fulfilled on the watery surface of both sets of eyes. And the blindingly bright sun glaring off the surface of Lake Michigan in July is reflecting off their smiles as they high five and start calling off ‘bet I catch the first one’, echoing in the entryway of the house that Ian fucking hates. He’s spent his entire life in it, but only took until this morning to hate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm totally fucking with the Gallagher family. Putting Ian completely in control of the younger siblings seems like it could be a fun facet to explore. It will most likely change some of his character, but I'm also taking his diagnosis away from him and giving it to good old Lip. 
> 
> Doesn't Ned just make your skin crawl?


	6. Sweet Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V's observations.

Sweet Face

 

She can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying when she sits down on the damp porch step beside him. Her hand hesitates if only for a split second because he didn’t hear her approach, or if he did, he didn’t bother acknowledging her. 

The contact pushes him off the ledge he’s been teetering on for months now. The laugh is definitely not a laugh anymore, “come here sweet face,” she whispers, her left hand sliding across his back to meet his shoulder, the right one flattening against his temple to draw him into her chest. Trying not to suffocate the gay neighbor boy in the mounds of her breasts, leaning forward into his hair that smells earthy and human, a little sweat, a little Axe shampoo, and a lot Ian. 

Sometimes he hates her for calling him sweet face. She knows that. The nickname dubbed him by the sister who ditched him. But it’s true. He has the sweetest face and the sweetest soul she has ever known. And that poor sweet soul is battered and lying in a million tiny pieces on this old porch that’s seen so much life. The splinters from these floorboards have been embedded in so many butt-cheeks through worn-out jeans throughout the years. Lodged into the soft spots of so many palms. Lifted off the wood and carried around in the flesh of a solid, living, human being until it festers and falls out. 

Ian has been carrying around a splinter for two years now. Two years since Fiona left, shortly afterward Lip was diagnosed. And that splinter starting to fester. She kept waiting for it. Holding her breath every time Debbie’s boyfriend’s car was parked on the curb, keeping her fingers crossed that it would be gone by the time he got home. Debbie wasn’t being stupid about it. She was doing things that a lot of teen girls do, at least she was using condoms. And she was openly talking about sex and drugs and alcohol with V, sometimes Ian. Often enough that he was still actively taking part in her life’s choices whether he knew it or not. 

V sat there this morning, staring at the car, wishing she’d be staring at the narrow shoulders of that greasy haired boy long before Ian came home. And she was going to talk to Debbie this afternoon. Sit her down and tell her it was time to let Ian know she was having sex, she was using condoms but she wanted to get on birth control too. Back-up is important. V told her over and over again, your back-up needs a back-up. Condoms exist for a reason, birth control exists for a reason, and the third method in place exists for a reason. The morning after pill. But either way, Debbie needed to come clean to her older brother who was working his ass off to keep them together and keep their heads precariously perched above water in their leaking row boat. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” it’s half laugh, half despair.

“The best you can,” she takes his face in her hands, lifting it from her chest to lock eye contact, “you are doing the best you can Ian.”

Waiting for him to nod before she lets him fall back into the embrace. She starts to wonder when the last time anyone hugged this kid was. He used to be such an affectionate little shit. With his mischievous twinkle and fiery hair, he looked like a little imp. But he wasn’t. He never was the stereotypical redhead always causing trouble. He was so insanely sweet, and always so concerned for the wellbeing of everyone around him. He’s starting to lose that sweetness, those dreamer’s eyes, his idealistic and optimistic approach to life. That adorable loving little boy has turned into a man who is pragmatic, at times cynical, and never allows himself to reach for individual happiness. 

She hates that. She’s mad as hell at Fiona for just leaving. Packing up her shit and leaving in the middle of the night like a scared little bitch. And she’s mad as hell at genetics for giving Lip a disorder he refuses to even attempt to treat. She’s mad as hell at Ian for being so soulfully gorgeous but thinking all he has to offer is his body. 

But the worst part is, she can’t blame a single damn one of them for ending up the way they did. Fiona was dumped on by Frank and Monica, relied on by five younger siblings, never thanked, never appreciated, and pushed to her brink. Lip was supposed to be the genius of the South Side, get out and never look back. His first manic episode was during the summer before his senior year. V wishes she had recognized the signs. But none of them did. By the time they did it was too late, he had already run off on his scholarship to MIT. She keeps expecting him to show up on the doorstep someday with a pregnant girlfriend, only to ditch her here with the remaining Gallaghers. 

And Ian. She can’t for a single second blame him for a single choice he’s made. She leans her face into the top of his head, taking a deep centering breath and running her hand across his shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze, “she’ll be back.”

“Yeah? What if she’s not?”

“Oh please. That dirtbag realizes she’s just a sixteen year old mouth to feed, he’ll dump her as soon as he hits a red light. They’ll barely make it around the block, definitely not out of town. She might crawl off to a girlfriend’s house for a night or two to make it look like you’re a dick, but she’ll be back before Monday. I guarantee it.”

“I am a dick.”

“Sort of,” she agrees, “sometimes sixteen year old girls need some tough love. You can’t just dance around them all the time like they’re delicate little flowers, bending over backwards to do everything they demand because you’re afraid to hurt their feelings. Ian, you are keeping this roof over their heads and their bellies full of food. You are allowed to set some rules and hand out consequences for breaking them. I mean, that might have been a little harsh, but,” kissing his head, “it was fun to watch.”

His hands rise, wiping at his cheeks and he emits a tiny sound that’s sort of a laugh. She can’t remember the last time she heard his real laugh. 

“You need a shower baby. And a nap,” she knows he’s been doing speed from time to time, a little blow when a client is willing to share. She also knows he’s not the type to get addicted. She prays to fucking god he’s not the type to get addicted. At least he’s not swimming in all of Frank’s gene pool, it’s slightly different being the son of the only Gallagher in that generation who has always kept his nose clean. Clayton, he must have something out of that gene pool worth keeping. Aside from those gorgeous eyes. Those gorgeous, misted over eyes that have somehow found a way to twist into some eye contact without losing the comfort and safety of her embrace. 

He doesn’t have to say that won’t happen. The shower and the nap. Those are like yesterday’s dreams. Gone as soon as his eyes opened yesterday afternoon. 

“Then a shot of espresso,” she smiles, “Mama got me one of those fancy coffee ninja things for my birthday so we’re high rollers now for our caffeine addictions. You better believe I’ll convert you to espresso worship.”

“Hey V, can I get one of those too?” Carl’s voice from the doorway startles her. When the hell did he start sounding like a man?

“You? On caffeine? Uh, no.”

“No,” he grins with that little twinkle that sort of scares her, sort of makes her proud, “one of those hugs,” eyebrows up, eyes down at her cleavage.

She rolls her eyes at him and scoffs, “no. Nice try,” stealing one more kiss from Ian’s sweet face before she slides away from him, “don’t you dare leave until I get you your coffee,” hustling down the stairs, knowing Carl is watching her ass the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably butcher the show's version of V, but hopefully still be believable. She's the combination of what Ian gets out of Fiona, Lip, and Mandy so she'll have to be different since the three of them are no-shows. And if Ian didn't have anyone to rely on, his little row boat would be sitting on the bottom of the lake.


	7. Dark Spots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at filming and the morning after.

Dark Spots

 

Neptune’s dark spots. High pressure systems accompanied by bright clouds. When the bright clouds swirl over the dark vortices they freeze into ice crystals. 

Bright, to dark, to frozen. They shift, in size, shape and stability. Eventually dissipate.

Bright, to dark, to frozen. That is exactly what he’s just witnessed on his Neptune. That bright gaze, that dark expression, that frozen cloud of fear.

He has a thumb shaped bruise on his throat. Ian’s certain he would claim that he likes it. He likes to be choked. And Ian is certain it would be a lie.

To each their own. Always. Every single person on this Earth is different. It is what makes us interesting. Every single person on this Earth should have the room to exist in the environment that allows them the freedom to enjoy the fucking things they enjoy and never apologize for one single moment of enjoyment. But Ian does not believe that this Neptune wants these dark spots. He does not for one moment think that he likes the frozen ice crystals on the pale white flesh of his delicate neck. 

Last night, handing his body over to this man, he felt so comfortable and so immediately and eagerly trusted him. He was not let down. This man touched him like he was made of the finest things on this Earth, like he was porcelain. Like he was a porcelain vase with a million dollars sitting inside. Something to protect and cherish, worship and adore. 

Neptune would not have touched him that way if it was not something he yearned for in return. 

————

His hands are shaking as he stares at them on the L ride home. Spring sun starting to lighten the layers of grey over the city as he leans his head against the window. His stomach feels raw and burning. His chest is aching and his breath keeps catching in that canyon opened by Neptune. 

His hands. Ian’s hands. Those were the hands that were leaving prints on that perfect ass. Red and painful prints. Those were the hands that were wrapped around his throat as he watched The Great Dark Spot swirl fast and heavy. Those were Ian’s hands.

That fucking director put two grand cash on the bedside table. And every time Ian hesitated to do something, he’d take a hundred off the stack. Fuck, Ian needed that fucking money. And Neptune kept nodding at him, kept telling him ‘I can take it’. And kept saying ‘I want it’. But Jesus fuck, Ian didn’t believe it. 

He made it out of there with fifteen hundred. And morals that were already teetering on the brink, now shattered at his feet. How the fuck did he get here? And how the fuck did he manage to convince himself to leave, leave that apartment with those pleading eyes on his, with that dark spot hardened and crystalized on the surface of that land he wanted to spend forever exploring. Only twenty four hours earlier he was running his fingers over the surface of his perfect flesh, silently vowing to never hurt. And now his fucking hand prints are all over that body, welts and bruises in the shapes of his grip, his slap.

Damn it, he wanted to travel the territory, not mark it. He wanted to leave no stone unturned, no single inch of virgin territory but he didn’t want to pillage and destroy it. Fuck. He feels his hands fisting in his pockets and he has to get off this fucking train before he takes out his rage on the smarmy looking dude in the suit and tie that looked at him like he was fucking dog shit being tracked in on the train when he boarded. Fuck him. Fuck his tie and his suit and his briefcase. Ian’s going to lift that briefcase. Not because there’s money in it, it’s not like it’s cuffed to his wrist and he’s going to pay off a ransom. He’s not some kind of government official that has top secret documents that he could sell to Korea and make a shit ton of money, buy a fucking private island off the coast a country that doesn’t extradite, lay on the beach and drink tequila all day every fucking day. No, he won’t get a damn thing out of the briefcase except when he sets it under the bench on the platform that he’s certain is at least seven stops away from the guy’s office he feels fucking great. Satisfaction. That is the feel of satisfaction. Fucking judgmental prick, doesn’t know a single damn thing about Ian’s life. Fuck him. And fuck his briefcase. Ian makes it halfway down the stairs before he changes his mind. He’s not that kind of person.  
No, he’s not that kind of person. He goes back for the case. Looks left, looks right, has spent half his life riding these trains, already knows exactly how to keep his face away from the cameras. Pulls out his dick, and let’s loose a golden stream. Laughs as the clog of sex residue causes the spray to fracture like a shower head with mineral build-up. 

And he’s still laughing when he takes the stairs at a jaunt. Still laughing when he realizes he got off about three miles from home. Fuck it, he’s still laughing when his lungs start to burn, his throat is raw and his head is finally fucking calming, legs like jello when he slows his run at the corner. And when he stops in front of the Gallagher house, he’s still fucking laughing. Leaning forward in attempt to catch his breath. Knowing V is sitting right there, in her usual spot, watching him, waiting for a break down. He’s not going to do that two mornings in a row. 

A deep breath of the scent of mud, dog shit melting out of the snowbanks, road salt, gas leaks. And he wonders if he lit a match, if he tossed it at that disgusting eyesore of a Honda, if it would light up. Flames and gasoline. He wonders if it’s anything like the way it is in movies. The action hero walking calmly away as the trail of gasoline starts burning. Hypnotic as the man’s shoes click and clack across the pavement and the fire becomes inferno and the explosion sounds while he becomes just a darkened shadow figure with flames and booms lighting his way into the night. 

Wait, he recognizes that fucking car. Fuck. His chest tightens and his breath catches. Stomach churns. Swallow, stand straight, take a deep breath, greet V, “morning,” with a maybe-convincing smile. 

“Mornin’ baby.”

She won’t bring it up. Not unless he does. She won’t say a word. Not until he does.

And he’s not going to, “Spring is in the air,” he shrugs.

“It sure is,” she grins, watching him bounce up the steps to the house. 

He shoves the door open, kicking his shoes off and stepping through the entryway. Doesn’t give him a chance to turn around, doesn’t give him a chance to speak. Watches the back of his head, his curly hair that Ian always sort of hated the feel of, “get tired of chub chasing?”

His head turns, that fucking arrogant smirk on his face. Fuck, Ian wants to wipe it off, “twink night at some club? Taking it up a notch, got word of a zipper club and too afraid to go alone? Huh, what is it this time?”

His eyes are getting narrow, mouth keeps opening and closing like he’s not really sure what to say, “I just…”

“That’s what I thought. Now get the fuck out.”

“I came here,” getting all huffy, “to talk to you like adults, I thought maybe we could work it out and try to get back together. I thought maybe we could…”

“Fuck off. That’s what you can do. Go find a chub, take your little cock and shove it in someone else’s ass without preheating the oven, I’m over that shit.”

“Of course, of course it’s all my fault isn’t it? It’s all my fault and you’re a transphobic macho top.”

He laughs. He can’t help it. Maybe things could have been different if he’d had the patience to walk Trevor through the finer points of foreplay. Or maybe they’d have been different if Trevor wasn’t a manipulative asshole, “I’m not transphobic. I’m Trevorphobic. Door’s over there.”

A year they’ve been going back and forth. Off and on. Trying to force things to click that will never fucking click. And it’s not because Trevor’s trans. It’s because Trevor is a dramatic asshole who sticks his fucking nose in business where it doesn’t fucking belong. It’s because they’ve never clicked sexually and Ian doesn’t really fucking care. He was dating Trevor to have someone there. Someone he thought he could talk to. Thought wouldn’t judge him because he works with kids who have been through the ringer, and he’s been through enough of his own personal trials. He thought they could understand each other, and offer emotional support. How wrong.  
Projecting his own fucking problems on Ian. Ian has enough without adding Trevor’s to the stack. 

He stops in the doorway, “I’ll tell your mom you say hi,” smiling cruelly before he spins on his heal and walks out. 

“Fuck Monica,” he mumbles under his breath. She might be some fun token wack-job to someone like Trevor. But to Ian she is the invisible force in his life that drives him to do the fucking things he has to do to keep his fucking family together. Because he knows she won’t do it, she’s not capable of doing it. Here’s what she is capable of - convincing Lip that Ian wants to fix him, wants him to apologize for who he is. Wants him to apologize for leaving Liam on the L when he was four. 

Yeah, he wants him to fucking apologize for that. And yeah he wants him to at least try the fucking meds. He wants him to be here. Fuck, he just wants him to fucking be here. 

And he wants a beer. 

“Carl! Why was the door unlocked while I was gone?!” hollering up the stairs, knowing the little psycho is awake and has been since Trevor walked in the front door like he belongs here. 

“In case Debbie comes back.”

“Debbie has a fucking key!”

Silence. 

At least with Lip and Fiona both gone, they each have their own bedrooms. No one has to hop out of the top bunk in the morning with the remains of a wet dream right there for the other occupants of the bedroom to see it. Of course, of course that would be something that Ian got to experience. Lucky placement in the Gallagher clan. Sometimes, yeah, sometimes he wishes he had forced his way into Clayton’s life. Sometimes he wishes he could be the only child of a middle class couple. But when the shit hit the fan and the fan was spinning on high, somehow the fucking judge granted Ian guardianship of all three damn kids and now the fucking fan only has one speed. High.

And Ian wishes he was high. Like back in high school when his fake girlfriend could score anything and everything they wanted and they’d sit under the L and get high as fuck. 

He pops the top off a beer. Beer for breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Or whatever the fuck meal a person who hasn’t slept in three days would be eating at seven in the morning on day three. 

Whatever, she’s dead now anyway. The fake girlfriend. She OD’d. Of course she did. What other way to go for a South Side piece of trash? Either drugs or murder. OD is probably less painful than being beat to death by a pimp, or a dealer, or having to fuck some fat old politicians as an escort. Death by fucking fat old politicians. There’s one for you. 

The laugh that was supposed to stay in his head, comes out of his mouth. Fuck, maybe he’s losing it. Maybe he’s bipolar too. Wouldn’t that be some shit? Or maybe all out schitzo. Wouldn’t that be a ride? 

He’s still half laughing when the back door opens and guess who comes walking in? Acting like she can sneak right through, walk right up the stairs, and never acknowledge anything that happened yesterday?

“Your boyfriend do that?” he wonders calmly as his eyes linger on the finger shaped bruises on her upper arm.

She wants to ignore him. She wants to keep walking. She wants to go upstairs and lock herself in her room that Ian took the lock off last year and every time she drills a new one on, he takes it down the next day. There aren’t locked doors inside this house. They can provide each other the curtesy of knocking, but locked bedroom doors are unacceptable. Good lord, he’s turned into such a prude since he became the authority figure. 

He knows she wants to ignore him. But she can’t. It’ll only make things worse. When she turns to face him, he notices immediately the puffy cry eyes, “did I do that?” she wonders when her gaze lands on his bare shoulder, clad in the same damn green sleeveless shirt he was wearing yesterday when she left.

He nods. The bite and the scratches went over well at the porn shoot this morning, last night. Whenever the fuck it was. ‘Gingersnap has some kink after all’, were the exact words of the director. And those eyes, he could feel those eyes on him, he nearly cracked under the pressure, wanting to blurt that no he wasn’t with someone else. The part of his that has so easily become a part of Neptune’s, that part of him will always and only desire Neptune’s touch and kisses, heat and passion. His hands, his mouth, his body. His breath through his hair, the fire in his fingertips and the earthquake in his hips. 

“Sorry,” she watches the floor as she says it.

“Debs?”

“What?” there’s some sass in it, like she wants him to just say ‘no big deal’, ‘no worries’, ‘nothing to apologize for’, ‘my fault’. Whatever.

“It only counts if you look the person in the eye.”

She scoffs, rolls her eyes but meets his gaze, “sorry.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “me too.”

“I’m just tired of being treated like a little kid.”

“You want to feel like an adult? Get a job,” he laughs, “make a mortgage payment. Buy the groceries. I mean, you’re more than welcome to pay the gas, water, electricity any time you want.”

Sure, he’s been easy on the kids. He wants them to focus on school. He wants them to do a sport, or an after school club, or have the time to fucking do their homework and actually absorb some knowledge instead of sitting behind the counter at work balancing their algebra books while they count out someone’s change. He wants them to fucking succeed and the only way to do that in a shithole like this is education, even if it’s only high school. If not a single one of them goes to college, that’s fine, but all three of them will have diplomas. Of that he is certain. What they do after that, well, that’s their decision. But while they’re under this roof, they’ll be going to school and focusing on good grades. Summer’s different, summer is time for jobs and scams and any way to make a buck. 

She rolls her eyes again, knowing exactly what was going to come out of his mouth before it even did, “I was going to talk to you. I swear I was. I just,” she’s watching the floor between them again, “I just, I don’t know, it’s not like it’s been easy to approach you lately.”

If he wasn’t so fucking tired he would bristle over that. Unapproachable and unreachable because every single waking moment has been spent working. But he doesn’t have the energy to fight, “I’m going to make an appointment for myself this week. I’m back-to-backing with you and you’re getting on birth control. I’m not raising a baby Debs. And I’m not going to help you raise one either.”

“I know,” she responds immediately, “Tonya said the other day that she was trying to get pregnant, you know, to make Derrick stay. He’s planning on going to basic training right after graduation. But, I just think that’s fucked up.”

“It is fucked up,” he agrees. It stings. Just another broken shattered dream lying on the floor, swept under the South Side rug. 

“What are you going to the clinic for?”

He shrugs. This open book stuff, “learn from my mistakes?”

“Yeah,” she raises her pinky in the air between them.

He locks it in his, “I did a porn.”

She chokes on her own spit and her eyes get big, “huh?” reaching for his beer.

Handing it over, the admittance making his stomach churn, suddenly wondering when the last time was he ate anything, “yeah. But, hey I have enough to get caught up on the mortgage now.”

She studies his face for a long moment before she swallows hard, stepping over to plop down at the kitchen table, “what was it like?”

“Mostly horrible,” he doesn’t lie, “I mean you’re fucking and there’s someone right over your shoulder telling you what to do. It’s distracting and weird. And you have to pretend to be in the moment when you’re not, and then the…” he trails off. The sound of his hand leaving a welt on that amazing asscheek twists his stomach again, “have you ever watched porn Debs?”

She shrugs, “well Holly is always saying it’s the best way to learn how to…”

“No,” he interrupts, “please don’t use that shit as a learning tool. Please.”

“Oh,” she stammers at the sudden rise in desperation in his voice, “okay. I just, I mean I don’t have any girls to really talk to about this stuff. Monica, Fi. And Holly is…”

“A slut. She’s a slut because she’s let douchey teenage boys convince her it’s hot to choke on dick, sexy to fuck two dudes in one night, and she’s the most popular girl in school if she lets them put it in her ass. Right?”

“Well, right but you just said…”

“Learn from my mistakes,” he reminds her, “and I’m not saying your body is a temple or any of that shit. I’m just saying don’t ever do anything just because some chick in a porn is making it look like the greatest thing since sliced bread. Please, get to know a guy before you experiment too much. Trust is important, at every stage, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a vibrator?”

“What?” her cheeks turn pink.

“Shit,” he sighs. This is not the shit he signed up for. He didn’t sign up for having sex talks with teen girls. Staring at Carl a few months ago and telling him to use lube and jerk it at least once a day was so fucking easy. But girls, are, damn it, “V can handle this part. You should know your own body, know your own likes and dislikes. And maybe if you get the right vibrator you’ll realize you don’t need a boyfriend at all,” he shrugs and feels himself smile at her. The expression feels foreign on his face. 

She nods, and a tiny smile rises on her face. He realizes it’s been a long damn time since they’ve smiled at each other.

“I know it’s stupid to think you’ll never regret a single sexual decision you make, I just,” he sighs, “I just want you to make your own decisions. And be safe about it.”

“I know. It was only a couple times, and it was only Hank. And I’m not sure I even liked it.”

“If you’re not sure you liked it, then you didn’t like it. But, that’s where the getting to know yourself first helps. And trusting your boyfriend. Even just being able to openly talk about what you want, if he can’t handle that, then he can’t handle giving you what you want. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Fuck, “I’m going to sleep.”

He squeezes her shoulder on his way by, and to his surprise, she grasps his hand, “thank you.”

“Yeah,” the only response he can muster on his way to the stairs. 

He doesn’t bother saying anything to the boys. He doesn’t bother taking off the clothes he’s been wearing for about four days now between gigs for taking clothes off. He lays face down on top of the blankets and he passes out immediately.

And he makes the mistake of dreaming. Dreaming of that beautiful snowy white expanse of flesh, dreaming of those gorgeous Neptune eyes locked onto his as their bodies joined and their souls became that space of grey between two black and white beings. That shadowy presence of a past life coming into focus, years and decades and centuries of being together. Every ending of every lifetime tumbling around in his dreams as though they’re real. Every ending of every lifetime with the same man. The man who’s name he doesn’t even know but his soul is as familiar as Monica’s voice, Frank’s slurs, Fiona’s hand, Lip’s intelligence, Debbie’s heart, Carl’s spark, and Liam’s calm. Familiar like his own damn reflection in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to The Daily Dot: "Ethical porn:  
> What’s the difference between “normal” and “ethical” porn? In short, it’s that ethical porn prioritizes promoting performers’ rights and well-being. Porn that is produced ethically tends to promote real-life couples or friends, with sex that emphasizes consent, mutual pleasure, and marginalized viewpoints. Most importantly, ethical porn studios ensure that performers, producers, and crew members are fairly compensated for their work. This might mean that you can’t access ethical porn for free, but if you’re at all concerned with the rights of workers in the adult industry (and if you watch porn frequently, you should be) supporting ethical studios is definitely worth your while."  
> There's my PSA :)
> 
> Couple things about this chapter:  
> 1\. Fuck Trevor. I keep trying to force myself to think he's not that bad. And probably if I did a character study on him, I could in some way convince myself that his treatment of Ian had solid explanations. But no, fuck him.  
> 2\. How different Debbie's path would have been had someone sat down and openly talked to her about sex? 
> 
> I'm liking Ian as head of household.


	8. Cobalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know where else to go...

Cobalt

 

He has no idea what he’s doing here. He got paid. Yet here he is. Standing on the doorstep. His hand is hovering in the space between his shoulder and the brown wooden door. It’s been hovering there for about four minutes now. Fuck, he needs to knock or he needs to leave. 

He worked the evening shift at the store tonight. Night off from the club. 

And here he is.

He hears a knock. It must have come from his hand. His hand seems to have made the decision for him. He hears it again. 

What the fuck is he doing here?

“Fuckin’ comin’,” the voice is muffled, but it’s his. 

He steps back as the door swings open, revealing an annoyed brow and pursed lips, “the fuck you want?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” it came out sounding desperate. Clearing his throat, “I mean I didn’t have anything to do, I just thought I’d…”

His eyes roll, stepping back with the door open. Ian follows, taking a deep breath, hoping to calm some of the nerves that have risen in his stomach. Taking inventory immediately of the shoes at the door. Nothing that looks like Ned’s. Relief rolls over him, but he’s still not sure how to explain his presence here. He’s not even certain what it is that drove him here. How would he explain that to…

What the fuck? He’s peeling his t-shirt off, watching Ian as he backs towards the bedroom. Wait, was he supposed to be here? Where’s Todd? Where are all the cameras? What the fuck is happening? And why is he following? Was this what he intended when he showed up here? 

Holy fuck. He’s naked by the time Ian gets through the bedroom door. Is there a point when seeing someone gorgeous naked gets old? Is there any way possible that seeing him, seeing his face and his body and his bare skin, is there any way, any place, any time that it would not make the blood rush in Ian’s head, his breath catch in his throat, and his dick act like it’s a private saluting a five star general?

The room is dim. The sheer curtains pulled across the sliding glass door that leads to a patio. The day is turning to dusk and there’s not a single light on in this bedroom. Ian wants to change that. Under the bright lights of the cameras he was able to see every single line, every muscle, every freckle on that body. 

And right now, he can only make out his form. It’s heavenly even in shadows. The eye contact is lingering and he’s walking towards Ian, fuck, he looks like he’s floating. An apparition of some previous life. A man who’s body he’s infinitely familiar with. 

HIs hands are grasping the hem of Ian’s t-shirt. And his body is close. It’s so close. He can smell him, a scent he’s somehow knows deep down in his dusty memories. Like the smell of his hair tucked under his chin last night brought back some primordial response in Ian’s core. And all those dreams, every single one of those dreams, those were real. 

And this. This is real. His heart throwing itself at his ribs. His breath coming out in heavy gusts of wanting, shirt over his head, those rough fingers taking hold of his chin. Tilting and guiding to his lips. His lips. They’re warm, warm enough to spark a fucking fire in Ian’s chest. Bringing emotions he never thought himself capable of to the tip of his tongue. His tongue that is passing the threshold of his lips. Meeting something so intimate, something that feels like coming home. But a home he wants to come home to.

Hands, sliding down the surface of his chest as though he’s pulling every ounce of Ian’s blood towards his fingertips. Meeting his belt buckle. 

Ian can’t get his hands to do a damn thing. They won’t reach out, they won’t touch, they won’t feel. Neptune makes quick work of his pants, dropping them to the floor and taking hold of Ian’s hips. Guiding him towards the bed. His calves meet the hard edge of the box spring, and he spins him. Shoving into his shoulders until he bends forward. His lips are exploring territory that only his hands travelled yesterday. The heat and moisture rising goosebumps. And a fucking shudder that races from the base of his spine to the top of his head when his tongue slips down the crack of Ian’s ass and his hands slide over the surface of his balls. 

Ian loses all semblance of reality. Flashing through his subconscious all the times he’s felt this before. All the places. Every single image a flash of a different era. A different life. But every life the same. Every life branded by the fire of this man’s touch. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. On his lips and tongue. On his fingertips and the flat of his palms. 

“Yes,” answering the question that was never asked. Feeling the pressure of his body weight shift, his hands sparking tingles like tiny snakes under his flesh. His breath catches as he presses into Ian’s body. And he waits. He waits until Ian exhales before he moves. 

He’s like thunder rolling on a distant horizon. Low, rumbling, barely moving the Earth, barely disturbing the air. But every roll more powerful, more intense. Hands working the folds of Ian’s balls, tracing every line again like he’s memorizing them. He’s not holding Ian’s painfully hard cock, but it’s already beginning to pulse and his eyes are glued shut, his breath is ragged. 

His weight shifts, taking Ian’s arms from under him and rolling his hips until he’s on his side beneath his Neptune. His knees lodged against his lower back, and tucked into the back of his thigh. Hands setting the rhythm of Ian’s breathing. Racing his pulse. 

Eyes. An ocean in which Ian’s dreams are reflected. Sparkling, dancing, and twinkling on the surface of a blue watery pool. 

That bubble floating away on the gentle summer breeze, transparent and delicate. It drifts, bobs, graces the surface of a blade of green grass. Barely brushing over it as it wafts upward on the next flow of air. Twirling back down to kiss across the sea of dew laden emeralds until it lands. Lingers, maintains. And bursts.

Ian’s hand finally rises from beside him. It’s shaking as it covers the distance to his cheek. Caressing his face before he hides in Ian’s chest. Sliding through his silky hair, waiting for him to breathe. It’s sudden, and it’s harsh. Like he’s just had his head held underwater until his lungs have started to burn and ache, filling his chest with panic before he can reach the surface for air. 

He shifts, rolling to flat on his back as Neptune collapses against him. Gasping and sweat glazed. Shaking like a dying leaf, holding on with all that’s left in an Autumn storm. 

Right hand journeying up his arm, flitting across his shoulder and remaining on the back of his neck, “I’m here,” he whispers into his hair. 

————

He lies there wide awake, watching the reflections playing a silent song on the ceiling. Listening to the easy fluttering of his heart in his ears, the gentle softness of Neptune’s breathing against his chest. 

And nothing matters. Nothing outside of this mattress matters. There is nothing else. Not the cars going past on the street outside. Not the people in the apartment next door. Nothing else matters. Not his siblings, or his house, or his jobs. None of it. It could all disintegrate and fall away to nothing, he wouldn’t care. Every single thing he has ever needed is right there. Breathing across his chest, heart beating against his ribs, fingers relaxed and spread apart on Ian’s bicep. 

He tilts his face forward, his nose meeting that scent, one he has carried in his memories for a million lifetimes. 

————

Waking sometime in the night when the feel of that body is gone. Like an open wound in his side where he’s been ripped away. Throbbing and aching for warmth. 

The curtains sway eerily in the cool damp breeze toying with the hems. Removing the top blanket from the bed to drape around his shoulders he steps out into the night. The patio is dark, but the glow of a streetlight splashes across the rain glazed pavers, a table with an umbrella folded and tied. The orange smolder of a cigarette and the crackling of the filter. 

Part of him is glad for the darkness. Knowing there are bruises on that delicate throat. Bruises the size of Ian’s hands. His stomach clenches at the thought and he sits heavily in the chair beside Neptune. He’s bare. Entire body bare in the cold night. Not a single goosebump, not a single shiver or shudder. The only movement the steady drags on the cigarette. He smokes it in silence. Crushing it out in a clay pot dish. He keeps dabbing it, like he’s painting a story with the ashes.

“Aren’t you cold?” he finally whispers when a chill rises from his own bare feet, up his legs and through his core.

His face turns. Slowly, calmly. Eyes landing on Ian’s through the nighttime. Through the molecules of the air between them. It steals the breath from Ian’s lungs, the Great Dark Spot visible in the night. 

“Cobalt,” he blurts.

Neptune doesn’t respond verbally, he doesn’t have to. His expression clearly reading the-fuck-you-talkin’-about?

“Dark blue ore discovered as an element in Germany in the 1700’s. Easily mistaken for silver ore, the miners called it kobald which means goblin. King Tut had a small blue glass object in his tomb that was dyed with cobalt. I’ll call you Cobalt.”

His brows knit with a scoff, but a half smile rises as he gets to his feet. His dick is right in front of Ian’s face and he feels his own starting to come to life where it’s lying in his lap. He reaches out before Cobalt can move past him. Taking his hips in his hands to pull him close. Kissing his stomach, running the tip of his tongue the length of his stiffening cock. Taking the crown of it gently between his lips, flicking it’s perfect head with the end of his tongue while his hands slide across his hips, rounding his asscheeks and pulling him close. Taking his cock down his throat as it hardens. Filling Ian’s mouth easily, taking handfuls of asscheek to guide the rhythm.

He wants it all. He wants every instance of that cock, every single layer of flesh, tissue, muscle. Every tube, gland, vein. Every single part of it. He wants to brand it with his lips, tongue, saliva like Cobalt branded him with his fingertips. He wants to leave pieces of himself all over this man, he wants to bond them in ways that make him belong to Ian only. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. With every breath and every beat of his heart. 

His fingers sliding across the perfectly fleshy mounds of his ass, slipping into the crevice and gently pressing through the gate. A quiet moan escapes his lips and Ian hums a little around his cock. 

“Fuck,” falters and hitches, floating slowly on the air like a bird feather falling to earth from a nest. That grey space in his world is coming into sharp focus. Feeling the heat of this man, tasting the salty sweetness of his essence as it begins to leak into Ian’s throat.

Cobalt pulls away quickly, hands desperate now. Tugging the blanket off Ian’s lap, his legs slide over Ian's and he lowers himself into his lap. Guiding Ian’s aching cock inside his body, hands grasping his shoulders so tight it’s painful. His breath exiting hot, heavy and erratic. Frantic gasps for air as his eyes linger on Ian’s. 

He’s holding onto his hips, keeping him balanced as he moves up and down. His back deeply arched as his movements grain speed.   
He’s going too fast. His gasps are sounding harsh but he’s not slowing, he’s only growing more frantic and there’s not enough moisture. His teeth are gritted and Ian’s stomach churns when he realizes what he’s doing.

He’s punishing himself. 

“Wait,” he gasps, pressing down on his hips to no avail. Wrapping his arms around him to pull him down towards his chest. This fucking chair has to go. He has to slow him, he has to grasp the control away from him and prove it’s not about punishment. It’s about feeling good, it’s about pleasure. It’s not whatever this fucking geriatric viagroid has him convinced it’s about. 

“Fuck,” he grasps tight as he stands, pulling his body in close while in the echoes in his mind the chair is crashing to the deck. The clay pot is shattering on the cement and Cobalt’s back is landing on the table. Ian’s hand only has time to protect the back of his head from the iron of the tabletop. Laying him back and leaning in, nose taking refuge in his chest, lips against his sternum, pressing warm tender kisses and breathing a light even breath against the hard thudding of his heart. 

He hears someone saying, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” over and over. And it takes him too long to recognize his own whispers against heated flesh in the cold dampness of the night. It takes him too long and he’s not even certain who he’s speaking to. Who he’s trying to draw back to the face of this Earth when they’re both floating so fucking far away from this patio that they could set foot on the moon, they could hold a blinking star in the palm of their hands, and they could blow out the sun like a tiny candle flame swirling in the breeze of this man’s soul. 

And he feels his fingers indenting his flesh and his heels buried in his butt-cheeks. He feels the desperation for something to hang onto. For something to grasp that is real and alive and not leaving. His hands slide to the square angle of his jaw, the perfect handle to grasp tenderly to aim his face. To pull him away from the table and into Ian’s lips. 

He wants nothing more than this moment for the rest of his fucking life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh me, oh my. Another sex scene. I'm wondering when I'll run out of metaphors and symbolism for banging.
> 
> I s'pose I should change the summary. You'd think after eight fics I'd be better at summaries and shit. I sort of hate tagging too. I feel like it gives too much plot away. I always just want to put ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK as the summary for all of my works.


	9. The Canyon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't get him out of my head.

The Canyon

 

The next time he wakes he hears the sound of birds filtering into his head. Beyond the scent of Cobalt wrapped in his arms. Warm, soft, his breathing is even and gentle. He’s still sound asleep and Ian wants to stay here all day. Blinking lazily against the back of his head, every strand of inky black hair coming into focus only to blur again into a sea of swirled and liquid night sky. The palm of his hand is resting against his heart. Feeling each beat under his fingers, wondering if he can so easily reach inside his chest and wrap his hands around that bleeding red organ. Just as Cobalt has done to him. 

He takes a deep breath and feels him shift. That easy breathing pattern turning into something resembling wake. Pressing his lips against the knob of his spine as his body comes back to life in Ian’s embrace. 

His hand slips from beneath the pillow where it spent the night, reaching for and taking hold of Ian’s. Sliding his fingers between each of Ian’s, a delicate pulse of heat and longing as it steers his hand away, folding his arm back and off his body. So simply removing himself from Ian’s grasp. 

He doesn’t look back at him as he steps out of bed. Ian’s throat constricts when he takes in the print of his hand displayed prominently on those pale gorgeous cheeks. His breath is caught and his heart is suspended, floating in the cage of his ribs as Cobalt disappears into the bathroom. 

Fuck. He sits up, pulling himself to the edge of the bed and running his hands over his face. How did he end up here? Why is he doing this to himself? Why is he doing this to that man?

Falling for someone who is taken. Getting involved even after Todd warned him to stay away. Take his money and never look back. That sounded easy, sure. But it’s not. It’s not easy when those blue smoke eyes meet his from across the room. Fully clothed and washed up. He’s handing Ian’s clothing to him and his eye contact is lingering. But he can’t read what he’s silently telling him. Melted metal in the heat of the fire.

He doesn’t feel rejected as Cobalt piles his folded clothing on the bed next to him, he feels like he’s protecting him. But he feels disgusting when his eyes linger on the bruise on his neck.

He dresses in silence with those eyes on him the entire time. When he stands to pull his pants on, he hears the vibrating of his phone in the back pocket. For the first time, realizing that he never bothered to let anyone know where he was going last night. When he’d be back. They all have his work schedule, they knew he was off. Shit, probably worried.

At the door he stops. Cobalt is standing right behind him when he turns to look at him, his face tilts up to lock eye contact and Ian feels himself leaning in. His hand sliding across his cheek. Thumb meeting the corner of his lips, they open instinctively as Ian nears. Pressing in, that warmth and yearning against his mouth. And his whole fucking world has become that canyon. Windswept, barren, open to the elements, battered, broken, and magnificent. 

————

“Where were you?!” there’s clear panic in her eyes, in her voice.

“Sorry,” hands up in the air between them immediately, “sorry I should have called. I went out, lost track of time, just,” he shakes his head to himself. His hand extending in the air between them and landing on her shoulder with a squeeze, “just, get ready for school. I’ll call next time,” leveling her gaze with his.

She nods, swallowing the worry that’s been swirling around in her mind since probably about eight o’clock last night. When he either should have been home, or at least texting. Instead he was standing on the doorstep of a stranger. Desperate for a place to feel at home.

She doesn’t say it, she doesn’t have to. He was just another person in a long line of people who ditched her. Abandoned her. Left her.

“I’ll call next time,” he repeats. 

She nods once again, turning her face away before he can catch the glimmer of tears in her eyes while she jogs up the steps to get her school clothes and make sure the boys are awake. 

————

“I just,” he sighs, setting the wrench on the counter and reaching for the latte V brought over, “I can’t get him out of my head,” he admits. 

She just came over to bring him some coffee. Which, yes, she will easily convert him to espresso worship. But now she’s getting an earful. 

She hasn’t risen a judgmental brow at him, or scoffed at his choices. But he can tell she wants to ream him out for doing a sketchy porn. He can tell she wants to reach across the counter and cuff him upside the head for bringing emotions into a hook-up. 

But holy fucking fuck, he can’t explain this. If there’s anyone on the planet that can understand it in any way, the way this magnetic pull is forcing his decisions, it’s not a physical, emotional, or even sexual pull. It is the pull of one soul to another. And if anyone on this planet can understand that, it is V. 

And he’s starting to think she has no idea what to say. He sets the mug down, turning back to the sink to test out his handy work. 

“Fuck,” laying his forehead against the counter in defeat when he turns the water back on and it starts dripping into the pan beneath the sink’s piping. Damn it, Lip was always better at plumbing. 

“You working tonight?” she finally wonders.

He shrugs, “supposed to work at the club. But Mondays are never worth going in for.”

“Well, I would say let’s go get you laid to get your mind off of this guy,” she grins, “but you’ve been laid enough by strangers. So let’s blow off work, bring a box of wine down to Mama’s salon and let her get to work on some scalp, neck and shoulder massages. You need a hair cut and I need my nails done.”

————

The distraction worked. For the two hours they were in the salon. It worked. 

But now it’s midnight and he’s rolling over in his bed. And he’s staring at the clock and now it’s 12:01 and he’s getting out of bed. 

And now it’s 12:42 and he’s getting out of the Uber. And now it’s 12:45 and he’s standing at the stoop with his hand in the air. 

And what are you going to do? Are you going to knock? Are you going to walk in there and fuck him? Are you going to walk in there and press lips to lips and groin to groin, and allow yourself to melt into his flesh and allow him to take over your entire fucking world so simply? Are you going to bond to his soul and allow him to bond to yours? Are you going to do this every single fucking night until he leaves the old guy and moves in with you? Is that your plan? Is that really your plan? And the Uber is gone and the Spring rain is starting to sprinkle on your shoulders and your hand is rising to knock, and yes. Yes this is exactly what you’re going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When does your insatiable thirst for your soulmate become creepy? Pretty much never.


	10. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE/MOLESTATION
> 
> So if the dog kennel isn't used for a dog, what's it used for? 
> 
> Hint: if you don't want to know what Mickey is thinking about when he's locked in for the night -skip this chapter.

Ice Cream

 

He doesn’t feel the bars of the kennel anymore. He doesn’t feel them digging into his shoulder as he leans against the edge. He doesn’t feel the unforgiving plastic against his shins. 

He doesn’t hear the rain on the patio outside the sliding door. He doesn’t hear the gentle knocking on the door of the apartment. He doesn’t hear the locks clanging on the tensile strength steel wire crate as he readjusts to draw his knees to his chest. 

He feels the alone. He feels the pulsing of bruises on his body. 

He hears the words in his ears. The whispers against his neck. The lips against his face muttering the phrases that repeat in his head like a broken record. 

He feels the sting of salt on his face. He feels the hands around his throat. He feels the hunger in his belly. 

And as he turns one more time in the small enclosed space. His eyes focusing through the darkness inside and surrounding him, through the darkness enveloping him, he focuses on the photo. He focuses on her smile. He focuses on her eyes. He remembers those words, those helpful reminders, ‘what do you think the streets would do to her?’.

Private school. A personal chef. A maid. The access to the latest in technology. A fucking roof over her head and a mother that dotes on her. 

So what would the streets do to her? They’d chew her up and spit her out, leaving her battered and broken, a puddle leaking into a gutter. 

He takes his punishments. He takes them like a man. And when it’s over he lets himself think of her. He lets himself think of her in that mansion where Candace can take her shopping whenever she wants, and let her drive the Mercedes when no one is looking, she lets her have everything her heart desires and Mandy doesn’t have to eat out of dumpsters and pick pockets, hold up liquor stores, sell her body, or sleep on cardboard. 

He never lets himself wonder what it’d be like if Dad had never killed Mom. If he hadn’t ended up behind bars and her six feet under. He never lets himself wonder what it’d be like if they’d grown up in the house by the L. With the pealing paint, chipped linoleum, ripped carpets, tattered curtains and the musty smell that always seemed to linger even in the Summer when the windows were open. He never lets himself think of that, he never lets himself remember that. Remember how she used to whisper in Ukrainian against the top of his head, how she’d sing lullabies even in the middle of the day, how she’d press her lips against his forehead every morning when she woke him for school. How she’d take them to the park late into the night because Dad was drunk by noon again and they needed to avoid him until he was passed out on the couch, the beer cans like landmines as they crept through the house to their bedrooms. 

He doesn’t let himself think of that.

If he does, then he’ll think of the first time he woke with Mom’s breath on his neck. And her hands beneath the sheets. All the while whispering, ‘Mommy’s taking care of you’, and ‘be a good boy and don’t say a word, if you don’t say a word I’ll take you out for ice cream’. 

And Mickey still hates ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I'm an asshole. Oh but we know Mickey's a survivor. And I only ever put the characters I love the most through the most shit. 
> 
> It is a little bit hard for this to stick to his original character type since here he'd be pretty psychologically damaged in ways he wasn't in canon. But he'll find his strong internal voice soon enough!


	11. Lapis Lazuli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a price.
> 
> Fixing Carl's discipline problems.
> 
> Stalking his soulmate.

Lapis Lazuli 

 

“I should have your ass for the no-show yesterday,” he warns from the open doorway of the changing room, “but you have a client already waiting for you in the VIP room. Hustle,” narrowing his eyes at Ian as he backs out, heading to his office.

“Fuck,” getting an eyeful of Curtis in the mirror. Fuck Curtis. 

Running his hands over his face with a defeated sigh, getting slowly to his feet. The VIP room is dim, everything in it is red. How cliche. Fire and blood, energy and primal life sources. Seduction, lust. Violence, danger. Is there much difference anymore? 

His heart lodges in his throat when he pulls the curtain aside to reveal that geriatric shit-stain of a man sitting in the lounge chair. He’s wearing that self-assured smile as he appraises Ian’s mostly bare body, holding out a hundred dollar bill in the space between them.

“It’s only twenty for a dance.”

“I know,” waving the bill in the air, “everyone has a price for everything Curtis.”

“Yeah, well that was a one time thing.”

“But you made my kitten purr. My kitten doesn’t purr for just anyone gingersnap.”

Fuck. That open wound in his soul aches and burns at the thought of that man, “doesn’t matter, I’m not for sale.”

“No?” leaning forward to remove his wallet from his back pocket, the stack of hundreds is upwards of two grand. He sets it on the arm of the chair, “everything and everyone on this planet is for sale. Money. Our life blood. Work for your living, earn your keep. Money for the roof over your head and food in your belly. Money to keep the heat on and the water running. Money to keep the electricity flowing and maybe for an extra. What is it you want Curtis? A night out on the town? A trip to Vegas? A weekend in Montenegro? Mmm, you’d look good lying on the bow of the sailboat, the crystal waters and the lush hills behind you. Or is it something simpler? A car, just an old beater to get you to work? A few dollars to get ahead on the mortgage? Maybe start a college fund for that sister of yours. What’s her name? Debbie?”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. He never even told the guy his real name. He never said a word about his personal life on set, “how?” is all that squeaks out past the panic constricting his throat.

His pointer finger taps on the stack of bills beside him, “money Ian Gallagher. Money,” the smile is cruel and knowing, “I mean Curtis. So what’s it take Curtis? A penny for your thoughts. Ten grand for a decent car. Twenty grand for a good start in a decent college. Eighty for your mortgage. Or is there no price tag for a future, for a career in the military? Is there no price tag for the freedom to lose your responsibilities? To be childless and able to pursue the dream? Sell your body, sell your morals, sell your soul. It all has a price tag,” he stands, the stack of hundreds in his grasp. Fanning them out in front of Ian’s face. More cash than he’s ever seen, “same place. After your shift here. Tonight,” he leans in suddenly, whispering in Ian’s ear, “I love to hear my kitten purr.”

————

Fuck. He made it out with a grand. One thousand dollars for five hours time. He made it out to the curb before he puked up all the emptiness in his stomach. He made it to the bank before they opened. And he stood outside and paced, and waited. And he could see the teller inside getting nervous because the more he paced the more agitated he got. And the more agitated he got, the more nervous the teller got until the security guard got there and asked him so politely what he was doing walking around in the parking lot of the closed financial institution.

He took a deep breath and he looked the guy in the face while he removed the cash from his pocket. The pocket of his green zipper hoodie that he’s been wearing for lord knows how long now. He was going to do laundry yesterday but Debbie still had a load running when he got home. 

It’s all the cash. It’s the full fifteen hundred from the other night and the grand from last night. And he wants to just put it on the mortgage and get it out of his sight and off of his conscience and his hands are shaking so badly the guy is giving him weird looks and he laughs, “I have twenty five hundred here. You think I’m gonna rob the place?”

“Is that a threat sir?”

He hears himself laugh and he sounds off keel, like his last string of sanity is shredding, “no. Did it sound like a threat?” and he wants to say something stupid like, ‘if I was threatening you, you’d know it’. But he doesn’t, “look, I earned this money. And I want to put it on my mortgage before I spend it on something stupid,” and his hand shakes again and his voice catches and he’s teetering on the brink of tears and this stupid old guy with his fat pie face is debating whether he should cuff him or not, “and here’s the thing, I know it’s not enough for the government to get involved and file a fucking report on me. I know that if I bring in twenty five hundred dollars and put it on my mortgage you people have no reason to question where it came from and if you want your fucking payment then you need to just accept the fucking payment because I’m here. I’m here and I want to make my fucking house payment!”

“Calm down sir,” his hand is up in the space between them like he’s going to reach for Ian and all Ian can do is duck. And then he feels stupid for ducking so he takes a step back and stares. It’s not just his hands shaking anymore, it’s his whole fucking body and the guy probably thinks he’s on something and maybe he should be on something. 

“Calm down,” he mimics, “I am calm sir,” his voice is steady, eye contact unfaltering, his stance stiffens to that engrained in him from ROTC. He nearly salutes the guy, “I am calm sir. I am calm,” an image of the kids homeless in tattered rags flashes through his mind, “I apologize for getting here before opening and standing outside the door. I rode the L, I don’t have a car. I work in Boystown. I’m a stripper at a place called The White Swallow. I had a long night,” he hears his breath hitch, “a really long night. And I knew if I went home with this cash I would end up buying the new hot water heater instead, or I’d end up paying a plumber to fix the leaking pipes, or I’d end up getting Debbie the guitar lessons she wanted and Carl the game system he wanted and Liam the bike he wanted, and,” his breath catches again and a tear blurs the image of the guy’s face. He clears his throat, “fuck, maybe we’d have Easter dinner this year and take a weekend trip to a water park. Or this summer we could rent a couple of kayaks and paddle into Lake Michigan to watch a sunset, eat dinner at a fancy restaurant that has real silverware and glass glasses and cloth napkins. Or maybe Frank would find it before I could spend it on anything reasonable and I’d have done all that, I’d have done,” faltering for words and breath, gasping out a choked cry as he loses control of his stance, “for nothing,” he finishes.

“How old are you kid?” the guy wonders gently, a weird softness has washed over his crinkled brown eyes.

“I’m nineteen,” his hand rises to wipe across his damp cheek, startling at the sight of so much cash in his hand, having forgotten it was even there. He shoves it quickly into his pocket, keeping a tight grip on it, “almost twenty.” 

“You rode the L with twenty five hundred dollars in your sweatshirt pocket?”

“Yeah. Not only am I poor and stupid. I also have a death wish,” his smile falters but he snorts out a laugh as he smears snot across his upper lip.

“Alright kid, lets go get your mortgage paid down,” he reaches out to pat Ian’s shoulder and ends up giving him one of those tight reassuring squeezes that Ian never received from Frank and maybe always wished he would. 

————

“You’re late,” Carl is standing on the steps to the porch when he gets to the gate.

“For what?” he jogged from the bank. Knowing he’d miss the kids on their way out the door, but it didn’t matter. That money had to go away. It had to go somewhere that Ian didn’t need to think of it, or see it ever again. To think of the things he did to earn it, fuck, he swallows a gag and forces his eyes to stay on Carl’s.

“Meeting the principal.”

“Oh shit, fuck. Shit,” he bolts past him into the house, “fuck,” no time for a shower. Racing up the stairs to at least find clothes that don’t stink like sweat. Fuck, every single item is dirty. Shit. Lip’s clothes are still in the dresser in Carl’s room. 

Water on his face, quick swish of mouthwash. Back down the stairs, rushing past Carl, “well don’t just stand there, get moving!”

“We missed the bus!”

“It’s called running Carl.”

“I’m wearing boots.”

“Yeah I see that. Better get used to it too. You’ll be doing a lot of running in boots when we get you into ROTC to keep your ass in school.”

“Why would that have anything to do with…”

“Discipline Carl. Clearly you’re lacking it,” he’s running backwards to watch his brother’s face, “this is your third strike dumbass. Only way you’ll get to stay in school is if you show some kind of drive. A commitment to bettering yourself as a student and as a person.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Get kicked out of school - get kicked out of the house. End of discussion.”

“You didn’t finish school.”

“Yeah. And look where it got me.”

“What’s wrong with where you are?” he’s breathing heavy already, “you’re with us.”

Fuck. Didn’t see that one coming, “I just mean working at a corner store and taking my clothes off for money. It’s not exactly fulfilling, alright?”

“Would you leave if you could?”

There’s something about his expression that makes Ian stop dead in his tracks. Taking his brother by the shoulders, leaning into his face and telling him, “no. I wouldn’t leave,” it’s only kind of a lie. Close enough to the truth that Carl believes it, “I’m here for the long haul,” slapping his shoulders, “now get those feet moving,” he hollers before he takes off at full speed down the sidewalk with his brother’s voice calling after him to slow down. 

————

That went better than he thought it would. Even though the principal was looking at him like he smelled bad, and he probably did. The Axe cloud couldn’t fully hide the smell of sex, body oil, sweat, and unwashed human. 

Sorting through his old uniforms. Carl’s shorter. He’ll have to have V take the hem up on the pants, but the jackets will have to do. Good, it’ll be a good thing to get rid of this stuff. If it’s gone it’s like the dream never existed. Just like Fiona. And Lip. And Monica.   
So he doesn’t stop there. Every room in the house is torn apart by the time the kids get home from school. Boxed up and ready for Good Will. Or the curb. He’s not sure yet. He could probably burn them in a barrel under the L and feel a fuck of a lot better about it. But he hates wasting shit that’s still usable.

“You have until tomorrow afternoon to decide if you want to keep any of this shit. Anything that’s still in the boxes when I get home from the Kash N Grab is out. Got it?”

“Got it,” they all respond in unison. Which is fucking strange. He was expecting resistance. At the very least from Debbie. Freaking out about getting rid of Dad’s stuff. Or Mom’s stupid trinkets. Or Fiona’s clothes. Because they might come back someday and want it back. And if it’s not here when they come back they’ll think they’re not welcome and they’ll leave again. They’ll think no one wants them around.

Well, Ian doesn’t, “I’m changing the locks too,” which might be overkill but ever since dragging that sleazy shit of a kid out of Debbie’s bed, exercising some authority and proving he could physically overpower each of them if he wanted to, or all three of them at the same time, proving himself capable of violence to get the desired effect. It’s like they’re scared of him now. And maybe he should feel bad about that. But mostly he doesn’t, “no more Frank on the couch. No more Monica touching down in our lives. No more Lip swinging the baseball bat at imagined intruders. Okay? Not a single one inside this house. Got it?”

“Got it,” again in unison and he’s wondering if he’s imagining it. 

But then that little psycho glow rises on Carl’s face. Like he approves of the sudden authority. Or maybe it’s psycho recognizes psycho or something. 

Either way, he’s not thinking about that man. About Cobalt, he’s not thinking about his eyes and his hands. He’s not thinking about the way he smells as he walks down for the afternoon shift at the store. He’s not thinking about the heat and passion of his kisses as he rings up the whole five costumers he comes in contact with in the first hour. He’s not thinking about his chest against his and his breath on his neck. He’s not thinking about the way his body looked in the glow of the night on the rain soaked patio. And he’s certainly not thinking about what happened last night. Fuck, he’s not thinking about that because thinking about that will make his lunch rise. And his lunch is not going to rise. 

It’s not going to rise and neither is the urge to stand on the doorstep and knock on the door. It’s not going to rise because he didn’t even answer the other night. And after last night, after all that shit, after all those bruises that Ian left on his perfect pale flesh, after last night he’s not going to want to see him ever again. 

So he’s not going to think of him at the club. While he grinds on his VIP, the same damn rich guy who is here every single week to get his fill of Curtis. This guy’s not bad though. He more than anything wants the companionship. He pays the money for the time, and he never expects more than the lap dance and the conversation. He’s just a sad lonely man as far as Ian can tell. He never even tries to touch his cock. Never asks for favors or even hints at them. So the hour he spends rubbing on his lap and talking about his job, it’s not that bad. Fuck, it’s probably the best part of his job here. 

And he’s not thinking of Cobalt. He’s not. He’s not going to get involved in his shit. He’s not. It’s not his shit to get involved in. Whatever he’s in, however he got himself there, whatever hold that fucking viagroid has on him. It’s his shit, it’s his problem. Ian can’t save him. He can barely take care of himself.

He’s not thinking of him and he’s not going to go there. 

He’s not.

So why is he standing on the doorstep shortly after his shift is over? Why is he knocking? And what the fuck is he going to do when he answers? If he answers? What if the old fucker is here? Then what? Boyfriends are allowed over when Daddy’s home, so… fucking creep.

Nothing vocal, no grumbling about how he’s fuckin’ comin’. The door just swings open. He looks annoyed. Fuck, those eyes. Every single time they land on Ian’s he feels his control completely exiting his body. His mind no longer belongs to him. He is hypnotized by just the brief contact before he turns away. It’s dark, he left the door open, and he’s walking away. Ian steps inside. Quick to the shoes. Nothing that could be Ned’s. 

A deep breath as he watches the shirt come over the head. 

But he’s not here for that. Is he? 

What the fuck Ian? 

The door is shut behind him, his shoes are on the mat. He’s following Cobalt to the bedroom. And by the time he gets there, he’s already naked. Lying on the bed in the glow of the light rebounding through the sheer curtains that are swaying on the breeze of the open doorway. It’s cool, too cool to have the door open. Sending a shockwave and shiver down Ian’s spine when his eyes are pulled to those blue pools. 

“Fuck,” his breath catches, “I didn’t come here to fuck,” he tries.

“Yeah? What’re you doin’ here then?”

“I don’t even,” his sentence drifts away as he watches him lean back against the headboard. 

“What?” his voice a husky whisper across the darkness.

“I just, I wanted to see you.”

“Get your fill? Door’s that way,” tilting his head to where Ian entered.

“No. I just, I don’t want… I don’t know how to say…”

“Clearly,” eyebrows rising. 

Good fucking fuck, he’s so horribly gorgeous and he’s just sitting there. His entire body on display, and every single inch is the most exquisite sight on this Earth, “I don’t only want to fuck you. I want to know you. I,” his voice trails away as Cobalt re-situates, leaning towards him, getting to his knees and crawling towards the foot of the bed where Ian has completely frozen, “I want, I just, I want to…”

His fingers have contacted Ian’s face, hands sliding across his cheeks, thumb slipping over his closed lips. A tingle races straight to his traitorous dick and he gasps right before those luscious lips brush against the surface of his. 

If there was ever a single thought in his head, if there was anything beyond the feel of this man, it’s gone now. That fucking easily. And his clothes are coming off and he’s leaning into this man, waiting for him to lie back but he won’t. Shit, okay, let him control. After what Ian’s done to him, he has no business even allowing him past that door, much less touching him. But Jesus fucking Christ if Ian died tomorrow and that awful fucking shit they did last night was his last sexual encounter, “fuck,” he breathes against those lips as his hands trail over his ribs and he flinches under the contact.

Ian pulls back, his fingers slipping over his face, tilting his gaze. Reading into his eyes in the darkness of the room. Nothing but a twinkling ocean of possibilities. An open invitation, a yearning, a need for love. 

Is it too early to tell him, to tell him that he can do that? He can love him. He can treat him right. He can treat him with respect. He can touch him gently and sensually. He can protect him. He can take care of him. 

“You don’t need him,” is how it comes out of his mouth. Shit.

And now he pulls away. That look falling away from his eyes. That open, trusting nearness erased. He’s backing away, shutting down. Reaching for his clothes from the edge of the bed. The bed that now Ian realizes looks like it wasn’t being slept in. The blankets tucked and folded. In fact, they looked that way the other night when he got here. 

“Wait,” he tries. Watching as Cobalt steps off the bed and into his underwear without a word. He reaches for his wrist, “wait, please. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know anything about him. But…”

He jerks his wrist away from Ian’s grasp. Turning without a word, exiting onto the patio. The door is open, the light outside is dim but it’s enough to see the bruising on his back. Ian didn’t do that. Where did those come from?

“Wait,” he calls again, barely above a whisper, “shit,” he steps into his boxers, his jeans and steps out into the cool air. 

Watching from the doorway as the lit orange tip of the cigarette rises to his lips. The crackling of the paper and his inhale, “the fuck you want firecrotch?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he sighs, lowering himself into the chair beside his Cobalt, “your name?”

“Fuck off.”

“A smoke?”

“Fuck off.”

Silence. He doesn’t look his way. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the cigarette rise to his lips, listens. Exhales when he does. Opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s going to say but then the smoke is being handed over and he doesn’t say anything. His fingertips brush fingertips and his heart flutters into his mouth. 

“Everyone has brown eyes,” he blurts, taking a drag in attempt to calm his mind that gets nearly frantic when this guy’s eyes land on his, clearing his throat and starting over, “the amount of melanocytes in the iris determine eye color. Melanin absorbs light. So high amounts of melanocytes mean brown and low amounts mean blue.”

He’s looking at him like he either thinks he’s the dumbest thing he’s ever laid eyes on or he’s actually interesting, “what about green then?”

“I have no idea,” shrugging, taking another drag before handing his smoke back over. This time when their fingertips brush he blurts, “Lapis lazuli.” 

His risen brows and narrowed eyes read, ‘the fuck you talkin’ about?’ without a word parting his lips.

“A semiprecious stone prized for it’s intense blue color. It’s actually a metamorphic rock. I’ll just call you Lapis.”

Scoffing as he exhales a smokey cloud through the corner of his lips. Those fucking lips, “how you know all that shit?”

“My brother is a bipolar genius. We used to share a bedroom and I used to listen sometimes when he talked to himself.”

“Talked to himself?”

“Yeah. Well I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was having breaks with reality and delusions,” it doesn’t feel weird, and it’s the first time Ian has talked to anyone about this. Always assuming he’d be treated differently if people knew the depth of his family’s problems, “my mom too. She’s bipolar. Different than my brother, but she’s just sort of in and out of our lives. Guess I haven’t seen my brother in weeks either, so not different in that way. Just different,” his voice trails off. Hanging in the air between them. Not heavy. Just there, “so what’s, um,” what’s your home life like? Great question, “you have any siblings?”

He shrugs and winces and Ian’s not sure if it’s physical or emotional, but his face twists a little with an admission like he can’t get it out of his mouth fast enough and won’t be able to push it far enough away, “a sister.”

“I have an older sister and a younger sister. An older brother and two younger ones.”

“That’s a lot of fuckin’ kids.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “it’s just four of us in the house now. But yeah. It’s a lot,” wiping his hands on his jeans as those eyes scan the yard around them. Almost like he’s looking for a way out.

He wants to get away from Ian. Fuck, or course he does. How stupid, “I guess I should,” he starts shifting in his chair, nearly to his feet, “I’ll get go…”

“Don’t,” it breaks and his hand lands heavily on Ian’s thigh, fingers digging in like he’s holding on for life. Quickly pulling away, thumbing across his nose and adjusting his focus to the ground. Clearing his throat, “you don’t have to go. I mean.”

He’s on his feet in a rush, stepping out of his boxers and reaching for Ian. Desperation in the feel of his grip, in his lips crashing into Ian’s. His hands on Ian’s belt, working the button open as soon as he stands. But this is not what he came here for. This does not have to be the reason he stays. This man is so much, he’s too much, he’s everything and he has been in so many ways for so many reasons and Ian has no fucking clue what his name is but he’s always been a part of his fibers and he wants to tell him that instead of letting him pull his clothes off and guide him into the bedroom. He wants to tell him that instead of lying back and letting him go down on him. And letting him lean over him, his silhouette wretchedly ravishing as he dips down into Ian’s lips and presses into his body. His hand burning that fucking brand into his flesh as his inherent response it always to lean into this man, to come towards him, to be a part of him.

Take it. Take it. Always. Take every single part of me. It’s yours. It was yours long before I ever laid eyes on you. It was yours before I was born into this form. It was yours before the beginning of time. 

It always will be as he crashes into his lips and his fingers rise goosebumps over his heated flesh. As his tongue meets Ian’s and his breath becomes Ian’s. All of it, every single part of it, as his lips draw back and his forehead finds a refuge under Ian’s chin, his breeze becoming a wind, becoming a hurricane against Ian’s collarbone. Ripping layer after layer of smoldering flesh away from his bones and building it back up with his lips, with kisses that are painful and gentle and elegant as they replace all the silk they tore away just days ago. String after string of silk, weaving and roping, braiding, building that cocoon around them both. 

Safe. Safe inside the silken cocoon. Inside each other’s embrace, holding so close, too close. So tight, too tight. Everything muted and dulled around them. Fading into nothing more than the rhythm and gentle breathing against each other, the steadying of their hearts speaking in coded secrets of familiarity. 

I know this place. 

His hand slides up the curve of his spine, laying flat on the back of his neck. 

What I would give to spend my life right here. What I would give to wake this way in the morning. What I would give to fall asleep every single night to the feel of you. The scent of you. The sound of you. What I would give. I would give it all.

Take it. Please take it. 

His fingers find that curve of his jaw, that handle to tilt his face with, to tilt his focus, take his eye contact. Watch him as his brows dip and his lips part. As a barely audible gasp exits his mouth and lands on Ian’s lips. As the surface of his ocean eyes rises with the tide, as Ian becomes the moon guiding and pulling the sea. As the sea rises. Rises. Rises. And crashes. 

Throwing them both ashore with the violent calm of a breaking wave. Churning up sand and rock and beach glass and driftwood. Tossing these things aside until all that’s left is the water slowly receding to the sea, slithering back home in silence. Back into the vast expanse of uneasiness and stormy weather. 

“Morning V.”

“Mornin’ baby.”

Another night bleeding into another day. Another day. Another day. In an endless sea of days blurring into nights. Blurring into the moments between wake and sleep. Those meager moments between alive and dead. The time spent surviving this life just to get to the next one. And whatever you did in your last life to deserve this one, fuck, you’ll make up for it in the next one. Because this one is just too fucking exhausting to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still haven't run out of metaphors for sex.


	12. He Loves Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: CHILD ABUSE
> 
> If Mickey's perspective is too much - skip this chapter.

He Loves Me

 

He watches his brown eyes as he ties his tie. Straightens, and flattens it against his chest with a nod of approval before his lips dip in. Taking a kiss that Mickey’s certain he doesn’t want to give anymore. Or ever wanted to give. He tastes like scotch and Mickey hates scotch. 

“Going to be a good little kitten?” he wonders as his hands clamp down on Mickey’s asscheeks and he grinds his pelvis close, “use your table manners?”

He nods. It hurts when he swallows. The bruises faded but the feeling remains.

“I’ll make you purr later if you’re a good boy,” his fingers trailing his jaw. A firm hold on his chin, eye contact steady, a sudden anger welling in the dark pools of his irises as he squeezes hard enough for the inside of Mickey’s cheeks to taste like metal, “no more boyfriends over when Daddy’s not home,” his hand stopping Mickey’s head from nodding. Instead guiding a nod of his creation. Lips mashing lips quickly before he releases and a smile rises on his face.

————

She keeps nodding politely and smiling politely and not saying much. When she hugged him at the door it was mostly stiff and foreign. Like they were just dinner guests that she barely knew.

Her hair is lighter again and her teeth are straighter and blindingly white. Her nose looks different somehow and Candace is talking about breast augmentation by desert and that’s the first time he sees her. He sees that bitch Mandy through that shell. Her eyes roll before they drop to her plate and stabs her fork violently into the Weight Watchers pie on her plate. The tiny sliver they’ve allowed her.   
When the fork clatters to the side, Candace looks over at her with a discerning gaze, “is something wrong with the pie sweetheart?”

“No. There’s nothing wrong with the pie,” and she forces a smile that’s convincing to everyone else here.

They’ll be drunk soon enough. They’ll be drunk and yelling at each other about the pool boy and the Porsche and the vacation house. They’ll be too busy yelling at each other to notice when Mickey and Mandy slip through the door into the cooling air of the night and she tosses her arms around him and melts into his chest with a sob, “I can’t do it anymore Mick. I thought I liked it here. I did,” her hands rising between them to wipe at her cheeks, “I did like it here at first. But, I just,” pulling away quickly. Angrily swatting the tears off her cheeks, “but you’re happy. So I need to just suck it up and deal with being a prissy rich girl with rich girl problems. Am I an asshole for wanting my old poor people problems back? I’d rather be hungry with a mother who loves me for who I am, than starving with a mother who thinks I’m fat and ugly. She wants me to get fake tits Mick. She already fixed my nose and I’m sorry, I know you like him and all, but Ned is a fucking creep. He…”

“Did he touch you?” suddenly the hair on the back of his neck is standing up and his stomach is flip-flopping and he’s picturing Ned’s hands on her pale skin and he’s watching as his old man hands are wrapping around her delicate neck and he’s choking her until she’s seeing spots in her eyes and…

“No, what? I mean he’s always taking measurements and talking about what parts of my body will need to be fixed. But touch me? What do you mean?” her blue eyes are filling with something resembling fear and disgust and now she’s looking at Mickey like he’s a victim.

But he’s not a fucking victim. Ned loves him. If he didn’t love him he wouldn’t be paying for his own apartment and his online education and his personal trainer and he wouldn’t be keeping him safe from the outside world. If Ned didn’t love him then he’d be hurting him for the sake of hurting him, not for the sake of teaching him the lessons he needs to learn in order to make it in this world. If Ned didn’t love him then he wouldn’t bring home a boyfriend for him to play with sometimes. If Ned didn’t love him then he wouldn’t touch him and kiss him. Ned loves him.

“Nothing,” he finally responds, “he’s our dad. He loves us.”

“Our dad? Our dad was a drunk piece of shit who killed our mom.”

“Dad loved us too. It just… he just…”

“He was a piece of shit Mickey. What the fuck is wrong with you? You should remember him better than I do. He was a piece of shit that…” her words are cut off by his hand clamping down on her mouth as he walks into her, backing her against the wall.

“Take it back!” he’s shouting, “take it back! Dad loved us! Dad loved us and he loved Mom! Take it back!” 

————

“Terry can’t hurt you anymore kitten,” stroking his hand through his hair, whispering against the top of his head, “Daddy’s going to keep you safe little kitten. You want to sleep in Daddy’s bed tonight? Sleep here with Daddy?”

He feels his head shake and his body move to the edge of the mattress. There’s something happening inside of him. Always this cracking sound like the ground is shifting before an earthquake, like a branch starting to break away from a tree when the winter snow gets too heavy to bear the load. It started when that ginger idiot kept whispering, ‘you’re okay, you’re okay,’ against his face. And it hasn’t stopped since.


	13. Arctic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This a date?
> 
> I guess heed the underage warning.

Arctic

 

“Take-out and a movie,” he lifts the bags when the door opens to those annoyed brows and breathtaking eyes. At least this time he came prepared. He didn’t just show up on the doorstep with nothing but a half hard dick and a need to feel complete.

His eyes narrow like Ian just spoke to him in a foreign language, “the fuck you doin’ here?”

“I brought dinner,” he grins, “I hope you like Thai, I’ve been craving it all week. And I brought Gladiator.”

“Gladiator?”

“Yeah. You know? Russell Crowe - ‘And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.’,” he can’t stop fucking grinning even though his eyes are getting narrower and his brows are rising higher, “it’s a movie.”

“I know what a fuckin’ movie is firecrotch,” pursing his lips for a moment as he looks at the bag of food in his grip, “but what the fuck is this? The fuck you doin’ here?”

“I just,” he stumbles, it seemed like a good idea. Get to know him. He’s overtaken every single waking thought and the majority of his dreams as well, there’s no stopping it now, “it’s Friday night and I have the night off. I thought we could…”

“Fuckever,” he shrugs, finally backing out of the doorway. Leaving the door wide open as he retreats into the apartment. Shirtless, work-out shorts. Fuck, sitting here with that without fucking him, this will be hard. Or impossible. But he’s going to do this. He doesn’t want Lapis to think that’s all he’s worth, just a warm hole or a hard cock. He’s not just that. And getting to know him for real, that’d be a start. 

“I got like a shit-ton of food. I didn’t know what you’d like. So I just got pretty much everything,” he shrugs, setting it out on the counter in the little kitchen. The apartment is nice. High end, but small. The open air quality is refreshing, the kitchen and living area being mostly one room. The bedroom and whatever the walk-in closet thingy used as a dressing room. Bathroom’s fucking huge with a big whirlpool tub in it. How fucking sweet would it be to fill that thing up and sit around naked with Lapis in it? 

No, not going there. Tonight is eating, talking, and watching an awesome movie. Maybe they’ll make out like teenagers. Either way, he is not having sex with this man tonight. He’s not.

His eyes fall to his bruised throat as he sets the cardboard food containers out, naming each dish as he opens them. Those gorgeous fucking eyes on his the entire time but he looks like he’s not paying attention to a single word. He looks like he’s orbiting space, millions of miles away with a tiny smile gracing the corners of his lips. He’s silent when Ian stops talking, the spread of food lined up and ready for chowing down. But he makes no moves, “you, um, you even hungry?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

“Is this an okay time? I mean, I’d have called first or texted, but,” shrugging. Hoping it’s enough of a hint that he’ll give him his damn number. Or a name even.

“Good as any time,” he mumbles. He turns away from the island counter, reaching into a cupboard for plates. Ian’s eyes linger on his wrists. Handcuffs? Fucking seriously? Handcuff bruising. It drops to the center of Ian’s stomach like an acid bomb, his eyes darting away immediately when Lapis turns and sets the plates down. He has no inclination to hide any of the bruises, he’s not ashamed of them, he’d tell Ian he wanted them, he asked for them, he deserved them. Fuck, Ned hasn’t come back to the club for Ian, he hasn’t come back with a fistful of money and threats. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had others over here. He hasn’t had some other man climbing all over his boyfriend, spanking him and choking him, cuffing him to the bedpost and doing whatever the fuck they want to him while he has no means of stopping it. Fuck. 

He swallows hard and accepts the plate without asking. He managed to keep himself away from that doorstep for nearly a week. He managed to force himself to go home after his shifts. Sleep in his own bed. He skipped the after-parties and did the responsible thing. He was awake when the kids got ready for school in the morning. He was sitting on the stoop with V drinking espresso and watching the morning commuters, chatting about the latest South Side gossip and Alibi talk. He has to pick up a shift there tomorrow before the club. Maybe he’ll see Frank. And maybe he’ll finally do what he’s been wanting to do for years. Maybe he’ll knock his teeth out.

Fuck Frank.

“So, um,” it shouldn’t be this hard to make small talk with him. It’s what Ian does at work, at the store, at the bar, at the club. He’s used to talking about the work week and the weather, the latest politics and celebrity gossip. But this guy, every single time his eyes land on Ian’s he loses all logical thoughts, “um, how was your week?”

He snorts at him, looking at him like he’s the biggest moron he’s ever seen. Clearly his week sucked, but he’d deny it. Choke marks on his neck, cuff marks on his wrists. His week sucked. Damn it. Ian got tested and everything came out clear, but now if someone else has been fucking Lapis, he can’t just hop into bed with him… He didn’t come here for that tonight. It’s not even worth thinking about, “fine.”

He’s eating way too politely. Part of the point of take-out is to be a slob. Eat it straight out of the cardboard box with the little metal handle. Eat it until you’re so fucking full there’s no way you can eat another bite. And then eat another damn bite. He spent the money he probably should have set aside for a new faucet in the kitchen sink. 

Guy’s got some serious table manners. Ian sighs, wiping his hands on the napkin beside his plate. Of course he does. Living in this part of town, “so you grow up here?”

Shrug. Fuck, it’d be easier to pry information out of an infant. His eyes are lingering on Ian’s hands, finally, “nah. South Side ’til I was twelve.”

“South Side? Really?”

His brows dip, “what, don’t look the part?”

“No, just, I mean you do. I guess that makes your finger tats make more sense,” he grins at him, he can’t stop, “how, um, how’d you get out?”

“Get out?”

“Leave, you know. Leaving the South Side, that’s like getting out of jail, or out of foster care, or graduating from high school finally after being stuck in four years of hell.”

He’s got that look again, like Ian is speaking a foreign language, “you been?”

“To jail? Just for a night. Got caught with a stolen car, one of Fiona’s boyfriends,” he shrugs, “foster care a few times. Nothing serious. A few nights here and there. But now I’ve got guardianship of my younger siblings, so I mean unless something happens to me they’ll never have to go through that shit. The group home Lip and I got stuck in once, now that was something. High school, four years of pretending not to be gay so I wouldn’t get my ass beat. You?”

He finishes chewing politely, swallowing and taking a drink of water, “you want a beer?”

“Yeah, sure,” because adding alcohol to this will make him less likely to fuck this man before he leaves, “how old are you anyway? You might have gone to school with Lip or Fiona at some point.”

“Nah,” he pops the top off the beer on the marble countertop. Ian nearly laughs. Cheap beer being cracked open on an insanely expensive countertop. Oh fuck, now he’s picturing just lifting Lapis onto the counter and fucking him with his head leaned back against the cabinets. 

Instead he accepts the bottle being passed over, “thanks.”

“Wanna watch this movie or what?”

“Yeah, I yeah, sure, let’s watch it.”

“What?”

Damn it, that sounds sexy as fuck. One word. One single word. Just a damn question, but the way he bit his lip for a second, “nothing. Just, I mean, I thought we were…”

“Spit it out mumbles.”

“Sorry,” he laughs, “just kind of nice to talk. Even though you’re not really answering any question I ask, but…” 

“I don’ know your name either.”

“Ian,” pausing, “Gallagher,” does he need his last name?

“Well Ian. Gallagher,” a cocky smirk rising with his brows, “you gonna get on me then?”

“What? No, I… I mean, I, you’re, but I just came here to…”

He’s stepping out of his shorts. It’s sending all the blood in Ian’s body straight to his dick, but this isn’t what he came here for, and now he’s walking towards him. The food is still out and it’s still warm and Ian is still hungry and it’s not as good left-over but his hands are on his shirt, lifting from the hem. His eyes are stuck on Ian’s, they’re so open and trusting and he’s so fucking gorgeous. 

But, “hold on,” his hands land flat on his chest, palm down, “hold on,” hands sliding up the surface of his chest, taking hold of his jaw, gently tilting his face, “can I kiss you? Just kiss you. And then watch a movie together. Hang out, talk, you know? Get to know each other.”

“Why?” backing away, the first time Ian’s seen anything resembling uncertainty on his face. Insecurity. His breath hitches as he bends for his shorts.

“No, wait. I’m not, I’m not rejecting you. Or, I mean…”

“Rejecting me?” he scoffs at him, “door’s that way,” jerking his thumb towards it.

“No, wait, just,” he steps towards him, his hand is extended and Lapis flinches. He drops his hand immediately. They both take refuge in his pockets, “I want to talk, I want to get to know you. I mean, yeah I want to fuck, you’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, and the times… the times I’ve been here with you when it’s just us, when it’s just you and me, when your boyfriend is gone and the cameras aren’t on. It’s like, it’s, it’s like my,” his voice trails off, “so stupid. I feel like… fuck. I don’t know.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. Right? Ned?”

He snorts, looking at him again like he’s the dumbest person he’s ever met, “that’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, I just thought…”

“Look, whatever you thought, Gallagher, is wrong. You’re right about one thing, you don’t know a thing about me,” his eye contact falters, sentence trailing off.

“But that’s why I’m here. I just…”

“Where’s your shit-stained movie then?” eyes back up, holding steady.

————

The couch is too big. That’s all Ian can think. It’s too big and it’d be too obvious if he scooted closer to Lapis just sitting there entranced by the movie. He watches the glow of the screen flashing across the watery surface of his eyes for a moment, his expression soft and relaxed. How is it fucking possible for this man to be sitting here like this? The perfection in every single feature, how is he real? 

Ian nearly reaches out to touch, just to see, but then his head turns, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

“Arctic,” the chosen blurt. Or are blurts ever chosen, “Arctic ice looks blue because water absorbs every other color in the spectrum so sea water looks blue. The thicker and purer the ice, the more blue it appears.”

He looks like he’s rolling it around on his tongue for a moment before his eyes roll and his attention turns back to the screen, “you believe that shit?”

“Why ice is blue?”

“No fuckface. The whole ‘this life or the next one’ shit?”

“Debating religion and philosophy on a first date?”

“You brought the fuckin’ movie,” he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek and avoiding eye contact.

“I brought the movie ‘cause it’s violent and awesome. And who doesn’t like Gladiator?”

He shrugs, reaching for his bottle of beer that’s nearly empty. 

Ian finds himself leaning his cheek against the back of the couch, his arm extending to land on Arctic’s thigh with a gentle squeeze, “I don’t know. I definitely never did, but lately it’s like everything I knew is sort of… changing. The last couple years with my family and then, I,” he shrugs and loses words when those eyes land on his, “you,” he feels his lips rise into a smile. Watching Arctic’s eyes watch his lips, “you’re familiar somehow. It’s crazy, I know, but…”

“This a date?”

“I,” he stutters, guy didn’t hear a damn word he just said. That’s probably good, because he sounds like a fucking idiot, “yeah. I guess. I mean I would take you to dinner at a restaurant with real silverware and everything. Maybe sometime, maybe I could take you to Patsy’s or something, but I…”

“The fuck’s Patsy’s?”

“It’s a diner. I guess you’re used to steak houses and cloth napkins.”

Something etches a path like a shooting star through a dark night on his eye, but he looks away quickly and shrugs, “yeah maybe sometime. Want another beer?”

This guy is fucking impossible. And impossible to peel his eyes off, “yeah,” but he gets up when Arctic does. Taking his empty bottle to the sink, accepting the fresh one when he hands it over.

“Smoke break,” mumbling on his way out to the patio. 

He smokes in silence. Ian watches his lips every time he inhales, the way his cheeks suck in, making his incredible structure that much more obvious. The delicacy of his nose and his mouth, he’s like a statue in a museum. A look but don’t touch. Touching will only scorch your soul, damn you for eternity. 

A smile rises when Arctic’s eyes turn, brows up. Annoyance written all over his face for being stared at. It breaks, and it’s like a chunk of ice falling off a glacier, crashing into the water, gut-wrenchingly beautiful. A smile as his face turns away from Ian’s. A real smile. Ian’s heart throws itself harshly against his ribs and his breath audibly releases. 

“Sixteen,” he mumbles towards the clay dish that he’s stubbing the cigarette butt out on, dragging it around like he’s drawing a picture.

“Hmm?”

“Sixteen. I’m sixteen.”

“What?” choking on his own spit as he eyes the man beside him, there’s no fucking way he’s sixteen. There’s so much living already done in the depths of those eyes, there’s so much knowledge and power floating on that ocean of blue, there’s so much history in the touch of his fingertips, “you shitting me?”

“Don’t worry. Ned doesn’t sell the movies. Not those ones.”

“What? What are you, what does he,” fuck. He’s sixteen. He’s sixteen and Ian is on film fucking him. And he’s sixteen. And he’s sixteen and his eyes are rising, they’re meeting Ian’s and he’s looking at him. He’s looking at him and he’s seeing every single moment of living that’s been done, every single moment of life that’s happened to him and around him. And he’s seeing every single broken part of ice on that glacier, every single crack and fissure. And he’s watching as another piece falls. It falls off into the sea and splashes. And the splashes are landing on his cheeks and he stands. He stands while his hands are wiping the splashes off and his breath is hitching in his chest and he’s walking away. 

His stomach is doing cartwheels, his throat is dry and blood is rushing in his ears as he rushes after Arctic, “I have kids who depend on me. And you just… you fucked me, you’re sixteen, and you just… you didn’t think it was worth it to tell me?! What the fuck?! What the fuck is…”

Wrong with you? With you? Seriously Ian? Take a breath. 

Where is he? The apartment is dim. It’s always fucking dim, unless the camera lights are on. Oh fuck. His stomach reels, swallowing the taste of dinner climbing up the back of his throat. The blue light from the paused TV lighting the living room, the kitchen. The bedroom door is open. The light on in there is yellow, a dull yellow. 

Fuck. If he’s sixteen and he’s living in this apartment all alone, if he’s been filming porn for how long now? If he’s sixteen and he’s, fuck, suppressing a gag as he pushes the door open the rest of the way. He said Ned’s not his boyfriend. He said it like it was obvious. He said he grew up in the South Side. He never answered, never told Ian how he got out. 

Fuck. Oh fuck. His hand his shaking, landing on the doorframe of the dressing room where the door is closed. He can hear movement through the door. Deep breath. How much time would he do? He’s nineteen, the kid is sixteen. He’d do a year. Fuck, he didn’t know. With a decent lawyer or an uninterested and overpopulated system maybe it’d be six months, maybe it’d just be probation and he’d lose the kids. Frank, fuck, Frank would end up with full legal control of the kids again. 

Fuck, he didn’t know. And he didn’t know. And this kid, this kid is Debbie’s age. And he’s been…

Fuck. The gag can’t be suppressed this time. Rushing for the bathroom and heaving up dinner. Fuck. 

Snot, spit, vomit, beer, acid, all of it. He flushes the toilet when the sick feeling passes. Leaning his head for a moment against the cool porcelain seat. 

He’s not the only one. Is he? How many videos are there? How many times has this kid been violated? And who the fuck is Ned to him?  
Fuck. He has to get out of here. He has to. And he has to get this kid out of here. But what the fuck? 

Jesus fucking Christ if he’d known this is what fucking a hot young man on camera for five hundred bucks would turn into…

His core is shaken, his mind is practically vibrating it’s so full of run-on thoughts and horrible images rising. Every image of Arctic being smacked and fucked and choked, his stomach clenches again. 

“Okay,” telling himself as he splashes cold water on his face and rinses his mouth out, “okay. Not his fault. Not your fault. Just breathe. Just chill. No one else knows. Just you. And Arctic. And Ned.”

Fuck. Todd couldn’t even have known, he seemed pretty knowledgeable about the industry, he seemed like he would have stopped it if he knew the kid was underaged. But he has film. Right? From the night Ned wasn’t there, and he was going to bring it to someone else. He was going to… but, wait, he’d have to have written permission from Ian and Arctic, right? He couldn’t actually do anything with it until he had the proper paper work, right? Or can anyone post anything on the internet? And how does he make money off it that way? Does he sell it to the site for a one-time fee and the site makes money off the hits, or what? Or how, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Who the fuck cares?

Standing outside the dressing room door. He’s tapping. Quietly and he can hear the sound of metal clanging like a dog’s collar sounds when the dog is turning inside a kennel, getting ready for bed. So he does have a dog. 

“The videos are in the bag. With your movie. Take the food too,” his voice is quiet, dropping low, “those are the only copies. Don’t ever come back here.”

His palm flattens out against the door. It’s what he should do. He should take the videos and he should get the fuck out. He should leave and he should never come back. Never think about it again. Never close his eyes and see his face again. Never dream and feel his touch in the night. Never allow himself to feel that again. That feeling like he was finally alive and every single thing he’d done to stay that way was finally worth it. It was worth it just to feel his lips against his, just to smell his neck, just to hold his body against his chest and wrap his arms around him. Just to look at him. And that smile. That tiny smile he saw earlier. That smile. 

Fuck, “I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t know. You didn’t… it’s not your fault either, alright? I mean you didn’t ask me to come here. You didn’t pick me up at the club and ask me if I wanted to make a porn. That’s not your fault. I just, that caught me off guard, okay? I just…”  
“You need to leave,” it breaks and he clears his throat, “please.”

And he should. He fucking should. Because whatever is happening here, whatever this fucking geriatric viagroid has over this teenager, it’s not Ian’s business. It’s not his business. And just like every South Sider knows, you keep your business to yourself and never put your nose in anyone else’s. 

He hears a gasp and a tingle races down his spine. This isn’t his fucking business, but, “you need to leave too.”


	14. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: CHILD ABUSE REFERENCE
> 
> Mickey's perspective - skip if it's too much

Together

 

He hears his breath choke off in his throat, muffled in his ears the voice outside the door, “you need to leave too.”

His hands are shaking as he reaches through the bars to clasp the lock. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have let him in. He never should have let him in. He knows better than to have a boyfriend over when Ned’s not home. He knows better.

Tucking his hands under his face, settling on his side, looking at the lock swaying back and forth. Back and forth against the latch. Ned will be home in the morning. He’ll know. He’ll know somehow. The couch cushions aren’t quite right. Or kitten knows he’s only supposed to have two beers maximum and there are four empty bottles. Or the food. It’ll smell like take-out in here even once the bags are gone. He’ll know. 

But if he’s already in the pen, if he already knows he did a bad thing, the punishment won’t be severe. The belt at most. The belt is okay.

He hears Ian’s hand slide across the door and a sigh, “I am sorry. Can I come in, please?”

“No.”

“Shit. Okay. Fuck. Can I just… I just want to know if you’re okay. Are you okay? I shouldn’t have, um, none of that shit is your fault. You’re just, I mean, fuck, you’re just a kid. I,” his hand taps against the door and Mickey flinches, but he’s safe here. He’s safe inside his den. No one can get to him inside his den.

He falls silent for a moment. Hands sliding across the wooden surface of the door when he speaks, “you’re just a kid. None of that shit is your fault. Just, shit, what is it, huh? What’s this guy to you? Where are your parents? Your guardian? Did, did something happen to…” his voice trails off. Like he’s waiting for answers. 

He won’t get any. He knows too much already. He never should have said anything, he never should have told him that. Just that, only that, he can get Ned put away. Without Ned, there’s no one taking care of Mandy. There’s no one taking care of Mickey. 

Where do they end up? In foster care? In group homes? On the streets? 

This way, they have each other. They’re together. It’s only once a week, but they’re together. They’re safe.

“Leave,” he whispers, “please,” into his folded hands. He doesn’t want him to. The something strange that’s been happening, something he can’t ignore, like memories of a past life coming back into his consciousness every time that ginger fuckwad touches him, “please,” it shakes and a tear escapes.


	15. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding out about Mickey through outside sources. 
> 
> WARNING: MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE

Please

 

“Please,” his voice is a terrified whisper. 

Ian caused that, “fuck. I’m sorry.”

Fuck. What now? He can’t walk out that door. But he can’t just stand here. Arctic is asking him to leave. He wants him to leave. He wants…

‘What I wanna do?’ 

Fuck, this kid has probably never once in his life had anyone do the things he wants them to do, “okay.”

————

He stopped at a trash can fire to dump the media. He stayed long enough to watch it melt. Then he walked all the fucking way home. If he hadn’t spent his entire stash on the food he’d have left it with the bums. But he has hungry kids at home. He can’t justify feeding a stranger when his own siblings probably haven’t had dinner yet, or if they did it was grilled cheese or maybe the last bag of tater tots in the freezer. He was supposed to grocery shop today. Maybe he never should have stopped fucking Kash, at least then he was getting free food. Stopped fucking him, guy took off on his family and now the store is being run by his former wife trying to raise his three children in his absence. Selfish prick.

Fuck. 

He shoves the food in the fridge. House is quiet. But his mind won’t settle. He checks every bedroom. Standing in each doorway for just a moment to watch each kid sleeping soundly. Safely under this roof. Where no one hits them. Where no one stumbles in drunk and passes out on their bed. Where no one has paranoid delusions and swings baseball bats at them. They’re safe. Healthy. And the shit he’s done to keep them that way. 

His stomach clenches again as his eyes linger on Liam’s sleeping face. His sleeping face, he remembers when he was a baby and he used to fall asleep with his mouth still going, still making sucking motions like the bottle was still right there. Fiona used to call it sleep sucking. 

Fuck, it stings. It all stings. 

Every fucking instance of life. 

He stumbles blindly to the kitchen. Alcohol. That’s what he needs. He needs a whole fucking bottle of vodka. But there isn’t any. It’s one thing to have beer in the house with teenagers, it’s another to have hard liquor. 

At the door, bent over, tying his boots he hears light footsteps on the stairs. Turning to watch a disheveled Liam blinking sleep out of his eyes, “where are you going?”

Fuck, he sounds small, “nowhere. Just,” he sighs, straightening out to watch his youngest brother who he really couldn’t look more different from, “getting some air,” he lies. It’s better than the alternative. 

“Can I come with you?”

“You need air?”

He shrugs, blinking rapidly at Ian.

“What woke you?”

“Dunno,” his eyes are lingering on Ian’s boots like he’s trying to will them to come off his feet. Levitate the laces to untie and Ian to step out of them.

“It’s hard not having me home at night, huh?”

He shrugs again. Fuck. Seven years old. Tough age to be a kid, he’s not a kid anymore in South Side terms, he’s done shit most kids don’t need to do by now. He’s had to steal to survive, he knows what streets to avoid after a certain time in the night, and fuck he’s already had to bite a kid for being racist. Fuck kids. Kids are cruel. 

“Well,” sighing heavily, “maybe I don’t need air. Maybe I should just read a book?”

A nod, an un-stifled smile before he turns to trot back up the stairs. He’s already got the book out and the desk lamp on by the time Ian makes it up to his bedroom. It doesn’t take long before his head is heavy on Ian’s shoulder and he’s slowly falling back into sleep.   
Turning to kiss the top of his brother’s head, taking a long inhale of his scent. Tears welling up from deep in his chest, aching tears suddenly ripping through his soul at the feel of an innocent child against his side. How does he protect him from what’s to come in this world? How does he keep him safe and innocent for as long as possible? How does he let him learn the rules of survival without losing his childhood too soon? 

This world is fucking harsh. This impoverished, hungry, barely clothed but still somehow afloat where you have to scratch and dig and tear and scream your way out if you’re going to make it; this world, this one, will rip his childhood away long before he’s ready to give it up. And it won’t stop there. 

Fuck, if all Ian can do for these kids if offer them a safe haven, then that’ll have to be enough.

————

He rubs the cloth along the rim of the glass until it squeaks. Staring at his hands, suddenly wondering, “what’s it called when a victim identifies or, I guess, sympathizes with their abuser?”

Eyes rising suddenly to land on Kermit. The guy is pretty much a loser, just like everyone else sitting in the Alibi at two in the afternoon on any given day. But he knows a lot of random shit about a lot of random shit, “Stockholm syndrome,” he answers immediately, “it’s like a psychological survival strategy developed by the captive in a hostage situation where they develop positive feelings towards their captor. Often seen in victims of sexual abuse, human trafficking, terror. Then the victim refuses to help the police afterward, or even see their rescue as a positive thing. It’s like battered woman syndrome, women who stay with their abusive spouses because they think they need them in order to survive. One day they realize they don’t need them anymore and they end up on Snapped,” he shrugs, taking a swallow of beer as Tommy’s scoff becomes a debate, becomes the normal Alibi bullshit with too much alcohol and too many boisterously drunk white men carrying on about the broken system and who’s fault it is and why the women never should have been let out of the kitchen in the first place. And Ian doubts they talk like this when V around, she’d be using her stiletto heals to grind some palms into the bar-top. 

But now it’s all swirling around in his head. What if Ned is Arctic’s guardian? What if his parents are dead and that’s how he got out of the South Side? What if he ran away from home, and this guy took him in off the streets? If Ned is his caretaker that would explain why he wouldn’t just get up and leave. That would explain why he’d think those things were okay, like he was earning his keep or something. 

He’s sixteen. So is Debbie. What was the name, the name Todd called the kid? He called him by his last name? Markovich? No, that’s Tony, “Milkovich?” he hears himself blurt.

“Terry and Nadiya,” fuck Frank. Frank, fuck, of course he’d come stumbling in here. Now.

“Cash first,” he grumbles as Frank sits down and taps the bar.

“Ungrateful fruit of my brother’s loins. You’d think after all I’ve done for you…”

“Cash first,” hand out, open palm on the bar between them, “and while you’re at it you can repay me the money I spent on groceries this morning to feed the fruit of your loins, you can give me their clothing allowance, you can feel free to credit our heat bill, and Liam really needs a new comforter. He’s using Lip’s old one and it’s got about three holes in it and it’s shredded on the top right corner from where Lip used to rub his hand all the time when he was manic and couldn’t sleep at night and then he was convinced there was a government bug in his blankets, listening to all his private thoughts as he talked to himself about this conspiracy and that conspiracy and…”

He slaps a twenty down with narrowed eyes, “keep the change.”

“Don’t worry I’ll put it on your tab. Or,” he sighs, sliding the glass across the bar, “I could buy Debbie’s tampons this month without having to pick up an extra hour here.”

Talk of tampons and periods usually shuts him up, or at least changes the subject, “Terry Milkovich,” a grateful gulp of beer after swallowing his shot, “wife beater, child beater, neighborhood thug. Drugs and guns were his specialty. He’s behind bars now. Killed his wife.”

“I heard it was because he found out she was molesting the kid,” Tommy chimes in.

Frank shrugs, “blew her brains out with a shotgun. Tried to get rid of the evidence but a do-gooder neighbor called the cops.”

“What kid?” towards Tommy.

“Their kid. I don’t know. Think they had two. Probably the boy though if she was molesting him. Sick bitch,” mumbling into the top of his beer glass.

Fuck, if that’s true… a shudder visibly rips through Ian’s core. 

————

“Hey Debs, did you go to school with a Milkovich?” it’s the first question out of his mouth when he opens the front door. Dinner, shower, club. And fuck, he’s too busy to think about Arctic, right? He’s too busy to think about him and worry about him and wonder what’s happening to him right now, happening right now.

“Mickey,” she responds, “he was my first crush. He was so dreamy with his blue eyes and black hair,” she flutters her eyelashes dramatically, “but then Holly told me he was gay. Of course I’d choose the gay one.”

“What?”

“Gay. Like you,” she half laughs, “why?”

“His sister’s name is Mandy,” Carl chips into the conversation.

Ian steps over to take the knife out of his hand before he can cut his finger off doing the stupid knife trick he saw on TV the other night and now he wants to learn it, “if you’re going to cut your finger off at least do it on my day off so I don’t have to dump a shift to take you to the ER.”

“Okay,” defeated sigh, watching him fold the knife and pocket it, “why you wanna know about the Milkoviches? Their family was real fucked up. Like more than ours.”

“We were in sixth grade I think, the end of sixth grade when his dad killed his mom and they got shipped off. How do you know Mandy?” she wonders towards Carl.

He nods with his tongue running along his upper lip, “I saw her underwear once when she bent over by her locker. They were black and silky.”

“Black silky underwear when she was eleven? See! See Ian, I wasn’t too young to want silky undies when I was fourteen! I was definitely not too young!”

“You were too young to have underwear that were just for show Debs. You’re still too young to have showy underwear. Why does everyone in the South Side know about that family but me?”

They shrug, like two puppets on the same string, “that was like, when Karen was pregnant and Lip was starting to act weird,” Debbie explains, “and you were all out for ROTC and stuff. It’s not like they were your age or anything. Why would you know? Dead lady in the South Side, brains all over the kitchen walls, what’s new about that?”

“What did you say his name is? Mikey?”

“Mickey. It’s like Mikhail or Mikhailo or something weird. Why?”

“No reason. Just… you on social media?”

She rolls her eyes, one hand on her hip, “not if you’re going to go snooping though my account.”

“Should I?”

“No,” she scoffs at the same time Carl says, “yes,” and she punches him.

“Okay, enough. Well with your nonexistent social media accounts, can you do me a favor? Look for both of them. Let me know what you find.”

“Sure, but only if I can go to Becca’s tonight.”

“Becca?”

“Don’t worry, her mom will be home the whole time, her number is on the fridge you can call her yourself. V is going to check in on these two as usual, and I’ll be home by midnight. I promise.”

“Okay. I’m calling her right now while you two set the table.”

————

“Forest Glen,” Debbie hollers through the bathroom door, over the sound of the shower beating down on Ian’s shoulders.

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

“Forest Glen. Mandy Milkovich Lishman. She lives in Forest Glen, some hoity toity lookin’ place with a ton of windows and a manicured lawn. She took a vacation to Montenegro over Christmas break. Girl’s definitely out of the South Side. Couldn’t find Mickey.”

“Let me see,” craning his head around the curtain to look at her phone screen. That’s definitely the face in the photo on Arctic’s dresser, “any pictures of her and her brother?”

“What’s with you? Got a crush or something? He sneak into the club and buy a lap dance?”

“No,” head back under the water, trying to hide any expressions from his sister that might give him away.

“Most of her posts are private. I could catfish her.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Means I pretend to be someone else to get her to trust me and…”

“No. No, what? That’s a thing that people do?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do that,” leaning out of the curtain again, this time with a pinky extended.

She rolls her eyes at his childish need for a promise, but obliges, “I won’t.”

“Lishman? Can you try to find information on her parents?”

“It’ll cost you.”

“What? A night at Holly’s? That won’t happen.”

“No. Let me take the driver’s test?”

“You got cash for a license?”

“No, but I will by the end of the summer. I’ve got four kids lined up already for daycare. And it’s only March.”

“Fine, but I will never buy you a car.”

“I know. But a girl should have her driver’s license even if she doesn’t have a car.”

“You’re not wrong.”

A squeal that only a teenage girl can produce breaks a smile on Ian’s face, glad for the shower curtain to hide behind.

“Can I go to Becca’s now?”

“Yeah. Do your internet stalking tomorrow and let me know what you find.”

“K,” the door slams behind her before she thinks to shout, “thanks Ian!”

————

The music is loud, the drinks are strong, the lights are flashing to the rhythm of the crowd and the swaying of his pelvis. Ass against a half-hard dick as he grinds himself into the guy’s lap. At least on weekends it’s usually a younger crowd than the weeknight regulars. But the younger crowd seems to think it’s okay to touch. Like the twenty for the lap dance includes the hand on the thigh. 

“Extra’s’ll cost you extra,” he reminds the guy when his hand makes a move towards Ian’s crotch. Turning to face him, grinding down into his lap.

He grunts his protest but puts his hands back down on the sofa next to him. He’s not bad looking, probably some college kid who spent high school in the closet and is just starting to come to terms with his sexuality. Looks like the type to rush a fraternity, tried to force some macho party guy thing to stifle the fact he’s queer. But the beer and the sorority girls still didn’t make him like pussy.   
Whatever. It’s twenty bucks. More like ten of take-home. 

Doesn’t matter, song’s over. Time’s up. With a wink he starts back over to the stage, only to be stopped by a familiar face. Fuck. Todd.  
“Can we talk somewhere quiet?”

“Uh yeah. Pretend to be a client. I’ll take you to VIP.”

A fifty comes out of his back pocket, lands in Ian’s shorts. Ian threads his fingers through his, draping his arm over his shoulder with a flirty show in case the manager is watching. Letting go as soon as the door is closed behind them, the fifty goes back over, “keep it,” he insists, “it’s your time and it needs compensation. Look, I got a,” he pauses, looking at Ian’s face for a long moment before he decides on, “bad feeling. Thing is, I know you’re still just a kid, you got no business getting too deep in this shit. But I got this weird call from Ned’s guy - Milkovich. Asking for any footage I had of you and him. He called from a blocked number and told me to drop it off, gave me specific times when Ned wasn’t around. I wanted to get in touch with you anyway, I still think it could be a money maker…”

“No,” he interrupts. Shit. Tell him? Bring him into the legal ramifications of knowing he filmed a minor? He clears his throat, “I mean if he wants it back, then…”

“We have to respect that. I know. I’ll bring it back. Thing is,” he pauses again to study Ian’s face, “shit. Did you get any weird… Guy sounded scared. You saw him, he’s pretty unflappable. It just seemed… you ever go back there? Aside from filming?”

“I,” his voice catches. Clearing his throat, what’s the truth in that part going to hurt, “yeah.”

“Talk to him?”

“Tried to. He wouldn’t really answer any questions.”

His face is pinched with worry, hand rising to wipe the length of it with a heavy sigh, “fuck kid. I’m starting to think there’s something fucked up happening in that apartment.”

————

He watches the SD cards melting in the trash can. Opening the window to the bathroom and letting the smoke whirl out on the breeze. He talked him into the leaving the cards with him, he’d take care of it. There were two cards, two cameras, two angles. Gone. A tiny wave of relief washes over him as he watches them turn into nothing but melted plastic in the bottom of a trash can that lives in the bathroom of a strip club. 

Sitting on the back of the toilet, head in hands, what the fuck now? Ignore it? Pretend it never happened? Pretend Todd isn’t getting the same feelings about that place? About that kid and his keeper? 

Or call them in? Call the police. Get Ned locked up on what evidence? If the kid is brainwashed, which he probably is, then he’ll do exactly what Kermit said. He’ll think he’s being taken away from his only safe place, from the only person who loves him. If Ned’s been keeping him out of society, which it sure as hell looks like. Fuck. The image of him sitting on the patio bare naked in the cool of the night, his eyes scanning the walls around him looking for a way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still liking Ian as head of household. 
> 
> I've gotten to a point with this fic where it's crawling on me. If you write, you know while writing a piece the characters sort of live with you in a certain capacity until the story is over. This one has definitely gotten heavier than I intended. So if you're still here - thanks for sticking around. I have an urge to just shove the rest of these chapters out without editing because I'm already at arm's length on the keyboard to keep it physically away from me. 
> 
> About three more will be edgy and then we'll start picking up the pieces. Hopefully will get to those ones this afternoon.


	16. Your Own Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: CHILD ABUSE
> 
> Last one from Mickey's perspective in the pen. Skip if it's too much.

Your Own Good

 

It’s cold. He can’t stop shivering. With every shiver the cuffs clang against the bars of his den. 

He smelled the take-out. He saw the dirty dishes that Mickey forgot to put away. He saw the beer bottles. 

He won’t let him out. He apologized. But Ned was mad this time. He cuffed him by the wrists and put his collar on. It’s been a long time since he’s put his collar on. 

“Daddy?” his voice comes out weak and grungy. He’s not sure how many days it’s been.

“You’re in charge Milky,” reminding him from the other side of the door, “you’re in charge kitten. You’re in charge of your own punishments, you’re the one who made the mistake, who broke the rules. You’re the one who chose to disobey Daddy.”

“Don’t do it Daddy, please.”

The cold air starts filtering through the vent, “your choice Milky. This is what it’s like on the Chicago streets. It’s cold. And you’re alone. And without me, the streets are your home kitten. I’m doing this for your own good,” as the door clicks shut behind him. 

Leaving Mickey in the dark. 

His mind starts wandering. The way it always does when he’s locked in for multiple days. The way it does in order to survive. Imagining Mandy happy and healthy at the big house with Candace. But not this time. Not now. 

Maybe it’s what she said. Maybe she’s not happy and he can’t convince himself anymore that she’s better off there. Maybe the things he’s endured with Ned haven’t been worth it. Fuck. He used to put the collar on and lock him in every single night. Discipline. Breaking those uncouth South Side habits. 

One morning when he woke up he had a couple stitches in the back of his head. A tracking chip. He tried to dig it out once. All he got out of it was a sore, bloody spot and a lashing, a weekend in the den. 

He might be cold and he might be alone. But no one can get to him here. Not unless he lets them.

And fuck if that stupid ginger with his dopey smile and his take-out and his need for sexual fulfillment or spiritual fulfillment or whatever the fuck he did to Mickey to get under his fucking skin and start fucking living there. But he freaked him out, scared him off. He never should have told him. Not a fucking word. Now he knows he’s jailbait. He’ll never want him again. 

But Ned wants him. Ned loves him. 

Fuck. Why’d it have to happen? He was fine here. He was following the rules and he was fine. Then they had to go and bring home a ginger. All pale and alien looking. With hypnotic eyes and gentle fucking hands that Mickey liked. And kisses. Fucking kisses. Like Mickey had never felt before.

Dirty deed. Feeling pleasure with sex. That’s not what it’s for. It’s dirty. Just like Mom always told him. It’s dirty to desire. It’s wrong to want. Sex is for procreation. And then she’d be under his sheets at night. And her hands would be sliding under the waistband of his boxers. 

Learn to take your punishment like a man. That’s what Ned was always telling him. Take it like a man. Be a man about it. 

Fucking stupid ginger. ‘You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay’, ‘I’m here’, and ‘you need to leave too’. 

Where the fuck is he s’posed to go?

He brings his knees closer to his chest. Trying to shake the shivers. But he knows when the shivers are gone, that’s when the hypothermia sets in. It’s not the worst way to die. Everything just sort of slows down. Comes to a slow halt, slower now. Slower.

He can feel it. Slower. Breath slower. Heart beat. Slower. A gentle rhythm against his ribs. It’s whooshing and whispering in his ears. ‘You’re okay’. And, ‘I’m here’ in every exhale. 

And there’s Neptune with it’s dark spots and there’s cobalt with it’s goblin ore and there’s lapis lazuli with it’s metamorphic rock and there’s the arctic with it’s melting ice flows. And there’s melting in his soul. And there’s melting in his heart. And there’s melting from the corners of his eyes, trailing a delicate stream of water down his cheeks.


	17. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's here. Let's breathe.

I’m Here

 

Everything in his body is shouting at him not to do it. Not to knock. He shouldn’t be here. He got the media, he destroyed it. He has no fucking business here. 

Debbie said the Lishmans seem like your average rich North Side family. He’s a plastic surgeon and she’s a homemaker, head of the PTA. The only child connected to them on social media platforms is Mandy. And his online presence is very professional through his office. Just a little blurb about his personal life as a loving husband and devoted father. 

Fuck. He shouldn’t be here. 

So why the fuck is he here? 

It’s like a fucking magnetic pull to this guy. This Mickey. Gravitational. The moon and the ocean. Fuck. That’s cheesy.

And true. What the fuck? His hand is rising. And knocking. And nothing.

Rocking on his heals, hands in pockets. Watching the door, waiting for it to open. And nothing. 

Knocking again. Fuck, he’s got to be home. Where else would he be? Seems like he’s kept on a pretty tight leash. He’d have to be. The guy is using him to film illegal porn, he’s building the set around the kid, of course he’d have to keep him out of public as much as possible. Kid might figure out he’s a piece of shit if he’s exposed to people who aren’t pieces of shit. And if he grew up with an abusive dad who killed their mom, he’d have been so fucking vulnerable when Ned picked him up. Good fuck, he’s probably completely brainwashed, he’s probably too far gone. 

Shit. Now his hand is reaching for the knob. What the fuck Ian? What are you going to do? Just push it open and walk in? Rich people have security systems. And they’d never leave doors unlocked anyway idiot.

But it is unlocked. And every part of him that has ever paid attention to a horror movie or a cop drama is screaming at him not to open the door. Screaming at him to take a few steps back and call the cops. What the fuck would he say to the cops? I have a weird feeling? I filmed a porn here and turns out the kid is only sixteen and the guy who’s directing it might be his father? 

That’d go over well. 

He watches himself push the door open. Feels himself take a step inside. No alarms sound. But he’s a plastic surgeon, he’s probably got top of the line silent alarms. Send a buzz straight to the police station or something. 

He finds himself wishing this was South Side. There’d be a bat on the wall. There’d be something right next to the door he could use as a weapon. A shovel on the porch, a broom right next to the coat rack. 

He hears himself breathe as he steps inside. No lights on. He steps quietly across the porcelain tiles. Interesting, rich people don’t have squeaky floorboards. Everything is porcelain and marble and granite. Don’t their feet get cold?

Fuck it, his eyes are adjusted to the darkness and he’s stepping into the main room of the apartment. Suddenly wishing he had just come here the other night. Wishing he had left the club after burning the media and come straight here. A weird desperation taking hold of his motions, muffling all rational thoughts and self-awareness left in his body. 

Holy fuck it’s cold in here. Windows aren’t open, patio door is secure. When his hand contacts the knob of the dressing room door he nearly yelps. Fuck, that’s cold. Opening the door is like opening the freezer doors at the store. A blast of cold air to his face. What the fuck? What is that clanging noise? Why is it so fucking cold back here? 

Pitch darkness. Blinking, adjusting to the complete nonexistence of light. And the cold. The dog? Is the dog locked in the kennel? Clanging like a collar against the bars.

He drops to his knees, feeling his way along the floor as he waits for his eyes to finally adjust, “hey,” calm, hand out, finger contacting a bar, “hey, hi buddy. You’re okay. I’m going to get you out of there, okay? You’re okay,” fuck he has no idea what kind of dog it is. If it’s been abused, neglected, and hurt it could very well be on the attack as soon as he opens the kennel door. 

He can’t risk turning a light on. Neighborhood like this, they probably have security guards that do hourly rounds or something. They probably know Mickey and Ned are out for the week, gone to St Bart’s or something. As soon as a light comes on, they’ll come barging through the door.

“Okay buddy,” did they just forget the dog? Did the dog-sitter forget the dog? He knew barely a thing about Mickey, but he didn’t seem like the type to abuse an innocent animal, “you’re okay,” his fingers slide over another bar on the cage and the shadow figure of a curled up animal is starting to appear in the darkness, “you’re okay,” as his fingers slide towards the shadow where it’s resting against the edge.

“Fuck,” he yelps it and reels back. His fingers just contacted human flesh. That was human flesh, “fuck,” he rushes to the doorway. Fuck security and the cops and the neighborhood watch. Flicking the light on and choking on his own breath when the bare, naked, huddled, still, silent, and cuffed body of his Neptune comes into focus slumped inside that cage.

“Shit, fuck, shit,” groping in his pockets for his phone. Eyes darting around the room for something to pick or break the lock. Where the fuck is the thermostat? 

Get in the fucking kennel, break that fucking lock and get in there with him. Warm him. 

Shit, what was Debbie talking about the other day with the water safety shit, she just took a Red Cross class for her babysitting shit. He paid out the fucking ass for it, but now she’s whatever certified to get more than just South Side gigs. People with money can find her on whatever that fucking website is and they’ll trust her with their spoiled rich brat kids because she’s Red Cross certified and took the water safety courses so she can lifeguard their private pool parties and shit. Fucking rich people. But she’ll pay him back when she starts making money on weekend birthday pool party jobs. 

Body heat. Fuck. Fuck. Break the fucking lock. Pick it. There’s got to be something he can pick the lock with. How the fuck long does it take for 911 to answer the fucking phone?! 

Carl’s knife. Multi-purpose tool. Fuck, he can thank that fucking piece of shit boyfriend of Fiona’s for one thing anyway. How to pick a lock and hot wire a car. That’s two things. He’ll steal that BMW parked out front to bring him to the hospital if these fuckers don’t answer the fucking phone. 

“Fuck,” hitting speaker and dropping the phone to the floor as he gets to work on the lock. Padlock on the door. Easy. Open. Gone. Handcuffs, fuck. Those are different. Fuck. 

“You’re okay,” he keeps hearing himself say, “I’m here,” as the damn 911 line keeps playing the thing about holding on the line. Operators are all currently assisting other emergency… whatever the fuck. Call the fucking non-emergent line if you’re just some dumbass calling about a noise complaint or a fender bender or whatever the fuck. This is a fucking emergency! Fuck. 

Carl had that fucking kennel in the basement once. When he was stealing dogs for the rewards. Ian should have paid attention to how that thing came apart. There’s got to be some way to get a side off. Or something. Something. Even if he has to drag the side he’s cuffed to with him to that BMW and all the way into the emergency…

“911 what is your emergency?”

“Fuck, Jesus fuck, fuck. Just send an ambulance,” he blurts out the address, fuck, hopefully it’s the right number. It’s the right number. It’s the one he gave the Uber driver last week and they made it here, “he’s chained to a dog kennel and I can’t pick the lock and I can’t find the thermostat. He’s hypothermic and he’s…” leaning his ear close to his face through the bars, “labored breathing, not shivering anymore, his pulse…” dropping the multi-tool to press two fingers under a collar against the delicate bruised pale gorgeous skin of his neck, “it’s fuck. I don’t know. What’s a pulse supposed to be? It’s fucking slow. It’s too fucking slow,” and his voice cracks and he has to get himself into the fucking kennel and warm him up. He’s not producing his own heat anymore. He needs an outside source of heat before his heart stops, “hurry the fuck up.”

Running out of the room for the blanket off the bed. It won’t even make a fucking difference anymore. Fuck, he shoves it through the open door. How the fuck does he even fit through that door? Fuck, he looks so small. 

“Fucking crate,” he nearly yells it. Fuck, it won’t budge. He can’t pick the locks on the cuffs, he can’t fit through the door. He can’t do anything but sit here and watch him die. Fuck, “you’re okay,” and he’s not sure if it’s to himself or to his Neptune. Either way the only response is the hitch in his own breath and the panic starting to bud, hands starting to shake. 

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Is there a model number on the crate?”

Fuck. This lady, “where?”

“Most likely a plaque on the door.”

“Shit,” the multi-tool is in his hand again, his eyes are getting blurry with panic, but not too blurry to find the plaque. He reads it off to her, hears himself breathe, hears Neptune breathe and his hands find the cuffs without his mind telling him what to do. Fucking breathe, “you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Heart lodged in his throat as the click finally fucking sounds through the rushing in his ears and his right hand falls to his side, “shit, he’s dying,” releasing the left slowly, it drops. 

“Help is five minutes out sir. Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Yeah I can fucking hear you. I can’t get in there, I can’t fit in there with him. He’s going to die.”

“No. Sir he’s not going to die, listen to me. I will walk you through taking one side off the kennel. Take a deep breath with me and let’s get started.”

Jesus fuck, she sounds like V. Did V get a job at the emergency operators service? Or whatever it would be called. Dispatch?

————

The side wall clatters to the ground, “has it been five minutes yet?” reaching in to wrap his arms around Cobalt. Gently sliding his limp body towards him. Something catches and his head drops to the side, “what the fuck? Shit, what the fuck? He’s got a collar chained to some kind of u-bolt in the floor. What the fuck? Shit, sick fucking old piece of shit. Fuck.”

His head spins again, just when he was starting to calm, when he was starting to think there was an end to this nightmare. When he thought the horror couldn’t get worse, “fuck,” he has just enough space to lean over him, pulling the blanket around his own shoulders and sliding over him to share his body heat, “you’re okay. I’m here,” crouching over him, close enough to touch, but not allowing any weight down on his battered body. Craning his neck to focus on the task of yet another fucking lock. 

Fuck Jimmy/Steve for taking Fiona away. But thank fucking God that his dumb ass taught him how to pick locks before Ian had a chance to learn it on the streets. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he keeps hearing his own voice echoing in his ears. His breath rebounding off Cobalt’s neck with every whisper, drawing him close to his body and wrapping his coat around him, rubbing his bare skin, cold to the touch, “you’re okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”


	18. Bursts Of Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The direct aftermath.

Bursts Of Sunshine

 

“You are lucky as hell that sick fuck didn’t come back while you were unlocking all those locks,” she wraps her arm around his shoulder, her hand sliding back and forth against him.

“I know,” a grateful sip of the warm coffee she brought. 

“And I guess he is lucky as hell you showed up when you did. Why the hell did you go over there anyway?”

“I have no idea,” he sighs, watching the door to the room he’s in right now. They let him stay with him at first. When they first checked him into a room. But then he regained consciousness long enough to pull the IVs and get out of bed, back himself into a corner, slide to the floor and rock himself. 

Now the sun is turning the sky into shades of late morning and his sister is in there with him and so is a shrink. Probably be a parade of cops and doctors and shrinks and whatever he has for family for the rest of the day. But Ian’s not leaving. Not until he gets to go back in there, look into Neptune’s dark spot and apologize. For not showing up sooner, for not being there the night it happened, for not realizing there was something amiss, for not breaking his way through that door the night he left. For leaving. For leaving like he asked him to do. 

For throwing his life into upheaval and uncertainty. He’ll end up in the system after he’s put through the wringer of whatever legal battles he’ll have to fight. He’ll end up front page news. Fuck. Can they put his face in the media? Can they? Ian’s seen plenty of missing kids faces in the news. Plenty of returned victims after spending weeks or months in the hold of a psycho. Stories on daytime television of abuse and neglect. Are the kid’s faces there because their parents gave permission? Or can any old news outlet print his story and put his face with it?

Fuck. He’ll end up with some shit lawyer that the state designates. 

“Foster care,” he mumbles towards the warm mug in his hands. 

“Maybe he has family somewhere.”

“He’d have ended up with them in the first place then.”

Her hand hasn’t stopped rubbing up and down. Up and down. A little vigorously, enough that his whole body is swaying along with her motions. Fuck it, he gives in, leaning down and into her shoulder. He’s exhausted. It’s starting to take hold. And she’s so warm and she’s so gentle. She’s loving. She’s a mother without children. 

“Long night baby,” her face has turned towards the top of his head, her whisper delicate though his hair, “long night.”

————

“The fuck you lookin’ at firecrotch?” his head hasn’t even turned. Watching out the window, the pale blue cloudless sky.

When his face turns, the sky lands on Ian’s eyes and lingers, “celestial dome,” he blurts, “everything that lies above the surface of the Earth.”

“The sky?”

Nodding, then changing his mind, “or maybe the ocean. Blue and sparkly.”

“Fuck off. It’s Mickey.”

“Mickey,” he repeats like it’s the most incredible thing that’s ever been on his tongue. Reaching out to shake his hand, “Ian.”

“Ian,” he half smirks, his hand rises. Wrists bandaged, cut through to the bone on the outer edge of his right one. The bruises on his neck still red, angry, but his voice sounds mostly normal. A little strained. His hand folds perfectly into Ian’s and the half smirk becomes full smirk. His eye contact breaks at the physical contact of flesh on flesh. A tiny pink blush rises, admitting, “guess I should say thanks.”

“No you shouldn’t,” denying. He doesn’t know how many days he was locked in there. But he was severely dehydrated. It’ll take some time, a lot of healing, but he’s strong. 

He’s chewing on his lower lip as his gaze dares to meet Ian’s, “so, uh, Ian. You come here often?”

Half laugh, “no. I try not to. But I’ve got three younger siblings, so it happens,” he shrugs.

“Well, maybe,” focus faltering, landing on his own hands on the hospital sheets in his lap, “maybe you should.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. I mean the whole taking care of people thing. You know, you’e not bad at it.”

He was fucking terrified. But he won’t admit that. Admitting that would mean admitting that he feels sparks of lightning every single time Mickey touches him. He feels his body and soul leaning towards him, wanting to be enveloped by him every time he looks his way. And he’s only sixteen. Fuck, sixteen and already survived so much more than an average person does in a life time. 

Reaching out to brush over his fingers on the sheet, FUCK U-UP. He’s right. The whole thing is right. Meeting Mickey fucked up Ian’s world. Everything he thought he knew about reality and the monotony of living. And life. 

Mickey is ready to fuck up anything that stands between him and his survival. It’s a long fucking road. And this is only the beginning. 

His gorgeous eyes land on Ian’s. All of his dreams and the promises of the future are written in sparkling bursts of sunshine on the surface of his ocean. The dark spot remains, but it’ll grow smaller as time passes. Ian’s certain of that, as certain as he is of this man’s brand being etched into his soul as his hand turns on the blanket. Palm meeting palm, fingers folding over and grasping tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost ended the whole thing right there. But it left too many loose ends. I think it'll be over in under 25 chapters though, so we're almost there.


	19. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time skip...

Shadow

 

The summer heat is stifling already, “morning V.”

“Mornin’ baby,” eyeing the cupcake in his hand as he takes the steps, “just because he’s seventeen today doesn’t mean he’s fresh meat at the meat market sweet face,” she reminds him.

“I know,” and he does. 

It didn’t take long for V to fall in love with Mandy. It didn’t take long for Candace to surrender her parental rights to both children. And it didn’t take long for them to be placed with a family that was already through the process for fostering, and ready to welcome them both with open arms. 

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles at her and she rolls her eyes, scoffing, “go ahead. He’s still in his room.”

“Stay in bed?”

“Nope.”

“Some day,” squeezing her shoulder on his way by. 

“Hey,” nearly walking into the wall of a man that is Kev.

“Hey,” stopping dead in his tracks at the look of seriousness on his normally anything-but-serious face, “what’s up?”

“That’s my boy up there Gallagher.”

“I know. I got one reminder from V already.”

“He’s been through a lot.”

“I know.”

His big hands come down on Ian’s shoulders. Looking into his eyes, searching for something and Ian isn’t sure what it is. But he finds it. Nodding, “you’re strangely pure for a guy who strips for a living,” shrugging, sweeping his hand towards the stairs as the permission for Ian to go. 

Tapping the bedroom door gently. Not really knowing what to expect, he’s met with a grumbled, “sleeping.”

“Clearly.”

“The fuck you want firecrotch?”

“Wanna wish you a happy birthday.”

“K, done. Now fuck off.”

Heavy sigh parting his lips, “I baked.”

“The fuck you bake?”

“Cupcakes. I only brought one, the rest are for later.”

“Better not be some fuckin’ surprise party.”

“Well now it’s not.”

Silence. Long enough that Ian sets the cupcake on the table in the hall, “okay, whenever you’re ready. I’ll see y…”

“Don’t,” it shakes. Making Ian’s chest hurt when he hears him clear his throat, “you alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Come in,” he sighs it. 

“Only if you want me to.”

“Why the fuck would I say it if I didn’t want you to?”

Only because that’s your learned response to everything. But he doesn’t say it. Earning this guy’s trust is proving to be a challenge Ian is ready for. He’s ready for anything when it comes him. 

He pushes the door open slowly, apprehensively. Dim, but the curtains are parted enough to let a band of summer sunshine light up the room, the empty bed. With nothing but sheets on it. The wind blows, lifting the hem of the curtains and sending brilliant rays dancing across the room. Finding his corner, the place he’s pulled his pillow and blanket. Where sometimes he barricades himself in with the dresser, or a chair, anything he can get his hands on to form that physical barrier between himself and any incoming threats in the night.  
Ian steps inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Cupcake in his hands like it’s a delicate precious gemstone. Lapis lazuli. Smiling to himself as his eyes drift towards his Neptune sitting on the floor. Back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. Watching Ian’s every move. 

He’ll wait. Mickey has to come to him. Not the other way around. 

He’s learning. He’s learning how to quantify his self-worth. How to be something other than sex. How to deal with his conflicts, face the issues around him and within him, without taking his clothes off to apologize or resolve. 

Of course there’s a part of Ian that can’t wait for the day he’s ready to take steps towards a healthy sexual relationship, but until then, this is fine. This is more than fine. The sea of promises in his eyes swelling, rising to meet Ian’s from across the room. A tiny hint of a smile in the corners of his lips. Tiny, barely visible, but there. Enough for a bolt of lightning to shock Ian’s heart to the back of his throat and jolt a smile onto his own lips. 

“What? No sprinkles?” brows up in an accusatory arch.

“You want sprinkles?”

His head shakes and his eye contact drops. Watching the floor space between them for a long time, finally admitting, “I’ve never had a birthday. I don’t know what I’m s’posed to do.”

“Whatever you want to do.”

“Whatever I wanna do?” it’s half mumbled as his fingers start to work on a lose thread on the blanket half covering his legs.

“Yeah. The party was just us. Just the Balls and the Gallaghers. But if you don’t want it, we don’t have to do it. It was just dinner. Cupcakes. Open a present or two. But it doesn’t have to happen that way. You can…”

“Stay with me?”

“Of course,” it comes out as a sigh. Like there was any way he wouldn’t stay. The cupcake trembles in his hand and Mickey moves. Reaching for the chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, “I wasn’t sure what you liked. So there’s vanilla with white frosting too.”

He shrugs, “I don’t know what I like either,” as he gets to his feet.

Fuck, of course he sleeps in only underwear. And of course Ian is glad he jerked off before he came over, at least he can maintain some kind of control over his physical responses to this man’s body. 

He sits down next to him on the mattress, not close enough to touch. Peeling the paper off the cupcake delicately. Taking a moment to stare at the cake in one hand, the paper wrapper in the other. Like he’s uncertain of what he’s supposed to do from here. Deciding on setting the paper on his bare knee, ripping the cupcake in half and handing one side to Ian with a shy smile. 

Sometimes he looks so childlike it’s impossible for Ian’s heart not to swell out of his chest. His stomach dropping heavily when the reminders of what he’s been through rise on his irises. But he smiles back, accepting the offering. 

Never again. Never again will he be smacked, or choked, or pounded painfully. Never again will he be held down, touched without his permission. Never again will he be cuffed and left helpless. Never again. 

“Happy birthday,” whispering through the rising frustration and pain clouding his chest. 

He gives him a half nod, bites into the cupcake. Ian follows his lead. Watching his face twist and feeling his own do the same, “oh fuck. Yuck, don’t eat that,” he snags the rest from his hand, “fuck. Gross. That’s not how cake is supposed to taste! What the hell did I forget?” doing a mental checklist of ingredients in his head. 

Laughing as he watches Mickey’s face going from bad to worse, choking down a swallow, “fuck birthdays.”

“No. No, I fucked that up,” he laughs, reaching out to wipe a crumb out of the corner of his lips, “that’s not how those are supposed to taste. Fuck. I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did…”

It’s interrupted by lips. Delicate, perfect lips that taste like that awful attempt at baking. The kiss is tender. Drawing every single part of Ian forward, towards this man. He breaks it before it can become more than just a kiss. Hands full of gross cupcakes, he leans his forehead in. Breathing Cobalt’s breath, inhaling his essence and exhaling his own strength, passing it over for him to keep. 

Take it all, with a smile rising on his face, “guess I should go try again on this baking escapade. Wanna walk down to the store with me? I’ll get mix this time. Can’t fuck that up.”

“No. No, don’t do that,” he stutters a little, “don’t do that for…”

“For you?” tilting his face to press his lips against his cheek, “I’d do anything for you. Cupcakes are,” he shrugs, “nothing. So,” rising to his feet before he can give in to the urge to crash lips to lips and slide his sticky cake hands through his hair, “I’ll wait downstairs.”  
There’s mist on his ocean eyes when the rise to meet Ians. 

“Outside the door then,” he smiles reassuringly, stepping through the open doorway, pulling it shut most of the way, just leaving a crack. A tiny sliver of comfort with his back turned while he listens to his movements on the other side of the wooden divider. 

————

He wears his stocky beauty like a shadow for the rest of the day. Mostly tucked behind him, his presence right up against Ian’s back, like he can’t quite get himself to face this day without a human shield to clear his path. 

Doesn’t bother Ian one bit. For about six months after Fiona took off, he got used to Liam behind him like a shadow. Protecting the people he loves, it’s in his nature. And he’ll find out in a few weeks if protecting strangers is in his nature as well. With the kids having banked a small fortune over the summer, both Debbie and Carl finding long term weekend jobs for the school year; Ian has the flexibility to enroll in school. The GED was a cakewalk. He got a grant he didn’t know existed, that was thanks to Mandy having rubbed elbows with some rich people who didn’t know what to do with all their extra cash. Apparently they give it away every year to a poor kid in the form of tuition. He never thought he’d be so willing to accept a handout like that, but he can’t sell his body forever. And having the chance to do the right thing, to make a good example for his siblings; then swallowing his pride for now, that’s doable. 

Criminal Justice. He’ll start school the week before Mickey goes to public school for his senior year. He’s already nervous as hell for Mick, made Debbie pinky swear to keep an eye on him. He’s smart, he’s capable, he’s incredible and he’s a survivor above everything. He’ll make it.

Watching him react by wanting to back himself into a corner when dinner is on the table. When it’s just his family and Ian’s family. When he looks so oblivious to the fact that he’s supposed to be enjoying this. He just looks fucking scared. Feeling so helpless to it. Touching him is not the right way to go. Putting him on the spot is even less acceptable. But he just wants him to know that he’s here, Ian is here for him. And whatever he wants to do, Ian will do it.

————

Ian reaches back, sliding his fingers into Mickey’s, giving him the gentle tug to stop hiding as they round the corner to the ball field. The sun sinking in the lazy summer sky.

“The fuck we doin’ here?”

Lips against his temple, “playing catch,” he asked him if he wanted to get some air. And Arctic looked like he wanted to cut and run when he nodded.

He admitted last week he’d never played any organized sports, but the one thing, the one happy memory he has of his dad was playing catch in the yard under the L. He’s working his way up to a visit with him in prison. Closure is what his shrink told him, or maybe a new beginning with his old man. Who knows? Only time will tell. 

He nods gently, eyes unreadable as he scans the green grass of the field.

“Here,” handing him the glove and ball he shoved in his backpack, “get on the pitcher’s mound,” trying like hell not to make it a sexual innuendo. Fuck, it’s so hard to do, avoid sex jokes, avoid thinking about sex every single time he looks at this man. 

Especially now. With the sinking sun low on the horizon. Lighting up the sky behind him in the most achingly beautiful sunset Ian has ever seen over this city. As the field lights are coming on and he throws the first gentle pitch his way. The calm that overtakes his features. The easy rhythm of the ball on the mitt. Again and again. Putting them both into a waking dream, an easy lull as he becomes bathed in the glow of nothing but field lights. Making his skin luminescent, his eyes piercing. 

Ian watches it happen slowly. Like a monument crumbling. His face starting to fall. Lower lip trembling before he bites down on it. Throwing another pitch. Blinking, thumbing his nose. Catching Ian’s toss with a gasp that he can’t stifle. Taking a step back after his throw. Taking another step back with the next catch. Mist rising. Throw. Step. Catch. Step. 

Shit. 

He doesn’t stop until he’s in the corner of the dugout. On his butt, knees drawn to his chest. Hugging himself. Silent. 

Ian lowers himself quietly next to him. Not close enough to touch. Fighting his own instinct to wrap his arms around him, to rub his back, to lean into the side of his head. 

His voice is quiet, barely audible, “Dad only killed Mom because,” breaking off, his face hidden in his knees doesn’t help the hearing situation, “she used to… she would, I…” his hands make their way between his knees and his eyes. Rubbing deeply into his closed lids, pressing his eyes around until they make squishing noises that make Ian cringe, “I can still feel her sometimes. And it’s worse than Ned,” he gasps, pushing out in little huffs of resent and anger that won’t quite bubble to the surface, “she was my mom. And every time I look in the fucking mirror it’s her eyes lookin’ back at me,” his hands reappear from behind his legs, locking together this time at his shins, pulling them in as close as possible, “there was ice cream,” he whispers, “at the house. I saw it in with the groceries,” trailing off. 

Ian waits. He listens as he takes a few breaths that cut off in the back of his throat, making Ian’s chest ache with a pain he’s never known before. Listening in silence. The buzzing of the lights, the sound of cars going by. And the breathing. Breathing in and out and in. And the burning, the burning of tears that won’t spill over. The aching of a hundred lives together and not a single one, not a single one that has been this painful. Crashing through his subconscious like an endless reel of black and white moments. Every life, every death. Not a single one in which the devil was in his bed. Breathing on his neck. Whispering, ‘Mommy loves you’ against the back of his head as the brand burned into his flesh. 

“She’d take me for ice cream,” he sounds so afraid, “if I was good.”

Ian’s core is vibrating with a need to reach for him. To touch him. To break the layer of protection he’s created over his own skin. To force his way through the silken web of his cocoon. To pull each string, and untangle every single strand, slip his fibers between them and live underneath his skin with him for the rest of his life. To seep into each and every pore, enter his bloodstream like molten metal until he’s filled every single inch of him. Only to harden and become that shield that he needs. 

“Mickey,” he hears pass his lips without his permission. Like it was just his exhale. Like his name just happens to live on his very breath.

What now? What the hell now, Ian? You can’t touch him. You can’t just reach out and touch him. You can’t tell him it’s okay. Because it’s not. It never will be. You can’t tell him you understand. Because you don’t. You never will. You can’t tell him he’s safe now. How the fuck could you know that? How the fuck could you know for sure that he’s safe now? 

“I love you.”

Fuck. Or that. Idiot.

Shit. No response. Maybe he didn’t hear him. That’s probably good.

His breathing shifts suddenly. So does his body weight. Meeting Ian’s side like a ton of bricks. 

And Ian breathes. His arm rising from his side, hand landing on his Neptune’s shoulder, pulling him in tight. But not trapping him. He can leave whenever he wants, but he can stay here all fucking night. Or for the rest of his fucking life. 

Turning his head to lean his face into Cobalt’s hair. Ingesting that scent that’s followed him like his shadow for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll take some of the healing journey with this family. I won't detail the whole thing, but I'll make sure they're all in the places they should be by the time I wrap this up.


	20. Breathing Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little time skip...

Breathing Pattern

 

Mickey watches the dull winter morning light playing patterns on the ceiling. He’s been awake for an hour now. Ian’s arms wrapped around his chest. 

His breath on his neck. 

His breath on his neck. 

Ian’s. Ian’s breath on his neck. 

Memorizing his pattern. Every in and every out. 

Ian’s breath. Ian’s pattern.

Ian’s arms. Ian’s breath. 

Fuck. His chest clouds and he squirms out of his grasp. 

An hour. That’s the limit. That’s a lot. 

Pulling himself to seated on the edge of the bed. His eyes are still searching, still looking for a place to hide. A place to close himself in.

That breathing pattern shifts and his hand lands on Mickey’s knee. The contact startling him, but he stays seated. Thumbs rising to grind into his eyes for a long moment. 

The hand retracts from his knee and a sigh echoes from behind him, “morning.”

He’s not going to acknowledge that last flinch. Good for him, “fuck.”

“Or that,” there’s a smile in his voice and Mickey mostly hates him for that.

“Who the fuck is happy in the morning?”

“Gingers.”

“Fuck gingers.”

He wants to say something like, ‘whenever you want’, or ‘please do’. Mickey knows that. And he bites his tongue. 

Mickey’s urge is to get up and walk away. Ian’s not even going to fight it. He knows that. That stupid fucking magnetic pull towards his damn lanky fucking body is just too goddamn strong to fight, “fuck. Shit. Okay,” laying back down. This time facing him, burrowing his face into his chest. 

“I love you,” whispered into the top of his head.

The idiot has said it to him. Maybe a hundred times. And something keeps choking off in Mickey’s throat and it won’t come out in return, “shit.”

He grunts a laugh, “that’s better than silence.”

Fuck. Now the world is closing in. His arms are too tight around him, his body heat is stifling even in the coolness of the room, “okay. Fuck.”

Grasp releasing immediately. What’s love been to Mickey anyway? ‘Mommy’s taking care of you’. ‘You’re in charge Milky’. 

He’s to his feet this time. Vision jumping from one corner to the other in this room. In Ian’s room. Where there’s just too much shit in here, there are no corners. They’re packed full of dressers and boxes. And who the fuck’s boxes are those? And what the fuck is in them? And why the fuck aren’t they in the basement? 

One dresser. One dresser with a bunch of shit on it. What kind of dude has that much shit on his dresser? Textbooks. That makes sense. That makes perfect sense. If you’re the kind of guy who needs to read the fucking textbooks in order to keep up with classes.  
He feels his thumbnail in his mouth. His teeth ripping at the edge of it. Until he can peel it back and get a tase of metal in his mouth. That metallic taste of blood that was always lingering when Ned would press his cheeks in tight against his molars. And when he’d bite his tongue because Mom was…

A choked cry passes his lips, “I love you too you fucking idiot. Why the fuck do you have so much stuff on your fucking dresser?” it’s all hitched and breathy and it won’t come out of his mouth fast enough.

“Studying material. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“Why? So I can be pushed into even more advanced placement classes and sent to fuckin’ college for whatever fuckin’ credits that I’ll never use ‘cause I’ll never actually go to fuckin’ college. ‘Cause I’ll never know what I wanna do with my life, and I’m s’posed to know by now. But I can barely fuckin’,” his voice chokes off again, “function. Like a real human being. Like I can’t… I have to sit in the back corner of every single class and even then there’s still room for people to walk behind me and it makes me… I can’t, I just,” his body is moving, backing up and he’s not even sure there’s a spare piece of wall anywhere in this fucking room to back himself up against. His vision is getting blurry and he wants to curl up in a ball on the floor and rock. But he’s already done enough weird fucking shit in front of the ginger idiot, and it’s only a matter of time before he realizes he’s not worth hanging around for. And it’s only a matter of time before Kev and V realize he’s not worth keeping around. And it’s only a matter of time before Mandy realizes he should have got her out of there sooner, he should have done something sooner, he should have… his back finally contacts the unforgiving surface of a wooden doorframe. And he breathes. 

His legs are shaking and his stomach is knotted. But he breathes. He feels ginger’s eyes on him but he can’t meet them. His palms are slippery with sweat and he’s trying so fucking hard not to sink down to his butt on the floor. But now the carpet is meeting his legs and his legs are being dragged towards his chest by his arms and he’s still breathing. 

He’s still breathing. Breathing. 

Breathing. 

Still breathing.

And wiping the sweat off his forehead. Fuck. What a mess. Fucking mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Learning how to accept a loving touch. Our beloved canon Mickey is hard to find in this one. I think I fucked him up beyond recognition. Which is why I'm fighting myself in the last few chapters. I want to give him enough time and space to leave this story with him strong and independent, but clearly that wouldn't happen overnight. So it might not be over in under 25 chapters, I guess we'll see. 
> 
> Sorry if I fucked anyone else up in the process of this. I truly had no intention of going this deep when I started this. If you've gutted it out this far - thank you so much for carrying on!


	21. Triton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neptune's largest moon.

Triton

 

“Fucking mess,” he mumbles it into his knees. 

He hasn’t started rocking yet. That’s an improvement. Ian slides to the edge of the bed, leaning over to get a good angle on Neptune’s face should he choose to show it, “you ever read comics?”

“No,” he snorts it through the gasping for air that’s starting to resemble breathing.

“Marvel’s Neptune was second only to Zeus. He was invulnerable to pain and could not be harmed by conventional weapons.”

“So?”

“The Roman God Neptune was known for his violent temper. His fits of anger caused earthquakes and tsunamis.”

“And?”

“Neptune’s largest moon is Triton, it orbits backwards in regard to Neptune’s other moons. Which means Neptune captured Triton, and it will probably be torn apart by Neptune’s gravity. It’ll turn into a ring around the planet, eventually pulled all the way in and crash against Neptune.”

“So?” his eyes have become visible over his knees. Landing on Ian and lingering.

He feels himself smile gently, “I think I’ll call you Neptune.”

“Fuck off,” grumbling at him as the gorgeous blue surface of life becomes hidden once again. But his body has relaxed. The grip on his legs is loose, easy. The breathing is even. It’s calm, “who the fuck’s boxes are those?”

“Lip’s.”

“What’s in ‘em?”

“Some clothes I’m hanging onto, some of his notebooks full of ramblings that I’m saving for when he comes home someday on something resembling an even keel so I can show him he needs help.”

“What’s in the notebooks?”

He sighs heavily, “I don’t know. Nothing that makes any sense. I guess when a genius loses their mind… beats me. Smells like Debbie is making waffles. Hungry?”

“No.”

“Okay,” stretching out across the bed, rolling to his back and taking a deep breath. Watching the ceiling, listening to Neptune re-situating on the floor. He’ll show up eventually. And Ian will wait. Captured by the blue planet, orbiting around him, stuck in his gravitational field until he gets tugged in hard enough to explode and become that ring encircling his beauty. 

It happens sooner than he thought. Appearing over him, leaning into him, his warmth and otherworldly presence enveloping Ian. Covering his physical form like a blanket, head tucked under Ian’s chin. He takes a deep inhale of him, hands rising to rub on his shoulder-blades. Seeking the physical comfort but still being in control. He can rest his head on Ian’s chest, and listen to him breathing, listen to the whooshing of his heart under his ear, find his peace and quiet. And leave whenever he’s ready.

It’s been awhile since he’s tried to resolve an issue by taking his clothes off. He’s been more willing to talk about some of the memories that he can’t seem to remember, but he can’t seem to forget. 

Ian may as well have been asking for his hand in marriage when he talked to Kev and V about him spending the night here. And Mickey doesn’t know it yet, but they’re getting all their paperwork in order to adopt him and Mandy before his eighteenth birthday this coming summer. Make it an official forever-I’m-yours-and-you’re-mine. 

Tilting his face, vision met with every single strand of silky smooth hair. Blurring into a sea of black before coming back into sharp focus as he slides it through his fingers.

They’re not having sex. Which is so fucking hard to do. But Mickey’s been molested and raped starting at a time when he wasn’t even certain what sex was. So of course Ian will wait. 

He quit working at the club. The paycheck from the Kash N Grab, and the shifts he covers at the Alibi are barely enough to scrape by. Relying now on the kids for more than he ever wanted to, but he had an after school job with he was their age. Asking them to pull their weight, it’s just a part of life. Life that’s learned at a young age around here, and maybe isn’t so much of a bad thing. Work ethic. Childhood is short, Ian’s dreams of lengthening his siblings childhood were just dreams. As long as they still have time, some time every single day to act their age. 

“I don’t have to go in until noon. I found some old hockey skates in the basement. Wanna go see how long it takes before we kicked off the ice?”

“I don’t know how to… sure.”

————

He laughs. He actually truly laughs when he crashes down to the surface of the rink. He laughs. And it is the most incredible sound that Ian has ever heard in this lifetime. And it’s been a full lifetime since he’s heard it. Echoing around in every cavern of his brain like a dusty record player with his favorite song crackling though the speaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course the original nickname for Mickey would come full circle. I had a strange amount of fun giving him nicknames in this.


	22. Ice Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here I go humanizing Terry. This Terry was still an abusive drunk, but I guess he drew the line at sexual abuse.

Ice Blue

 

He remembers it. He remembers it so clearly. He was still drunk from the night before. But he remembers it. It was the sound of her voice that made him stop outside the bedroom door. The sound of her hushed whispers. The things she was saying to their son. He didn’t have to push the door open to know. He didn’t have to see it to know.

He walked over to the couch. And he sat there. And he listened as she exited his bedroom. As she prepared breakfast for them. As she got them ready for school. He watched them walk past him like he wasn’t even there. He watched them with their backpacks on, their one pair of presentable school jeans. One pair each. One pair of jeans and three shirts. That was the allowance. A t-shirt, a long-sleeved, and a hooded sweatshirt. 

It was cold that morning. Autumn was still in the air but the crisp of winter had seated itself during the night. The air burned his lungs when he stepped out onto the porch to watch her walking with them. Down to the corner. She kissed her fingers to press them into their lips. And the look on his face. The look on his son’s face. When she touched him.

He loaded the shotgun. Knowing she’d stand at the gate and talk to the nosy old lady next door, pretending she wasn’t lingering just to watch the bus pull away from the curb. 

She was ill, sure. It was a mental illness. But fuck her for bringing Terry’s son into it. No amount of therapy, or apology would fix the feel of her hands on his body. 

He sits in the plastic chair at the phone bank. Waiting. The boy’s new family made arrangements with the warden himself. Maybe the old bastard does still have a heart inside his chest after all. The agreement was that he could come sometime when no one else was here. 

His daughter. She doesn’t know. And maybe it’s better that way. Sacrificing his relationship with her in order to keep her mother’s memory in tact. She didn’t know the depths of her soul when she was still alive, why should she know now? What good could come of that?

But this boy. Fuck, Terry’s breath catches in his chest. Watching him walk in the door. Taking the seat where he knew he’d be able to watch him the entire way. His shockingly bright blue eyes find Terry immediately, drop to the floor even faster, then dart over to the feet of the tall, broad guy next to him. The hand squeezes his shoulder and the lady with big tits rubs his other arm. They linger by the door. 

He’s frozen. 

Terry has to look away. Feeling the stinging and burning of tears welling up being his eyes. Sitting here crying will do nothing, it won’t get him to walk over, it won’t get him to pick up the phone and say hello. It won’t get him to sit down and let Terry look at his face. If he could reach through that glass. If he could just reach out, take a gentle hold of the boy’s chin, and tell him how fucking proud he is of him. 

Some rich plastic surgeon takes a child abuse/rape/porn rap and ends up behind bars around here, ain’t a soul going to protect him. Terry’s son is still a minor, his face was kept out of the media. His name was never mentioned, not in public. The thing about getting to know the guards, they aren’t the only law enforcement that deal with criminals. They aren’t the only ones who come in contact with every single layer of human scum that ends up behind bars here. Word spreads from one layer to the next. 

Terry has killed before. Terry has killed for the sake of his boy before. He remembers the way it sounded. The way it sounded when her brain-splatter dotted the walls of the old house. 

This time. This time he’ll make it slow. He’ll make this Ned Lishman pay. There’s a code among even the lowest of criminals. And child molesters never make it out of prison unscathed. 

He hopes he never forgets the way it sounds when this pervert screams for mercy. Mercy he shall not receive. 

Talk. Talk that spreads like wildfire. From arresting officer to detective to police escort to prison guard to prisoner. The talk of his skin being rubbed down to the bone from a handcuff. The talk of him being on the brink of death, locked in a cage and left to freeze. The hours upon hours of film.

There will be no mercy. 

Terry feels his fists clench where they’re resting in his lap. His eyes are dragged over to the doorway where his son is still standing. A fourth person there now. A tall ginger kid who’s making eye contact with Terry. Watching him for a long moment before he whispers something in his son’s ear. 

Mikhailo. That was Terry’s grandfather’s name. A mobster is what he was. Real rough around the edges, but never violent for violence sake. A job needed to be done it was Mikhailo who did it without flinching. He made it quick and he never mixed work with pleasure. He was a steady hand on the job and a gentle hand at home. Never took a dime he didn’t earn and never kept a dime he didn’t need. He took care of his own and he took care of his neighbors. No one messed with him and no one messed with the people in his circle. 

Clever and highly intelligent. Receptive to things he’ll never be able to voice, and never fully understand. Mikhailo. Reserved and private, respected by his peers. Mikhailo Aleksandr. 

His breath hitches, eyes filling with tears that refuse to blink away as his son sits down on the other side of the plexiglass. His eyes, Terry remembers looking at those eyes the day he was born and feeling his entire universe crumble. How? That was it. How? How to protect, and fulfill, and enrich, and shape this tiny human. How? How to give him all the things Terry never had and never could get for himself. And he wanted to give them to that tiny baby. How? How, when he had no honest job and barely a pot to piss in. How? How could he put aside his own life, his own needs, his own physical and emotional desires to do all the things that this beautiful baby would need him to do?

People liked to say Mickey had Nadiya’s eyes. But Terry never saw it that way. He saw his own mother looking back at him from his son’s face. She had the bluest eyes in the palest face with the darkest hair Terry had ever seen in his life. And she had the sparkliest smile to match. Those eyes held the expanse of the sky and the depth of the ocean, for the amount that she believed in her children. Terry was only fifteen when she passed. But those eyes, he’d never forget. 

Nadiya. Her eyes were blue, that’s true. But there was always an ice over them. A blue coldness in her contact. He didn’t know. He didn’t know until that morning.

“Fuck,” breathes past his lips as those eyes meet his. They’re not ice cold, they’re warm and inviting like a mid-August sky. The way it looked the day he was born. Terry’s lip trembles and he lifts the phone to his ear. 

Waiting. Watching those eyes, those eyes as his hand contacts the phone on the other side of the glass. Those eyes as the receiver meets his ear and Terry whispers, “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know enough about the court system and I'm being too lazy to look into it, but we can just pretend that Ned took some kind of deal to keep his case from going to trial. Doesn't matter what it was - Terry's going to take care of him for us. One thing that does actually seem portrayed properly in Hollywood when it comes to prison is that child molesters are not welcomed by other prisoners with open arms. So we'll play this one out that way.
> 
> Sorry, I don't think I'll get to more than that chapter today. I'm probably overanalyzing the end of this one. But since I took Mickey down such a horrible journey I really want to make sure I'm closing it with the right amount of care. Thanks for hanging around!


	23. Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning physical boundaries. 
> 
> Adoption Day.

Different

 

“See,” reaching out to straighten the collar on the button-down shirt, “good thing I kept those boxes, huh?”

FUCK swatting his hand away from the tie, yanking the knot back down like he’s choking to death on it.

“No tie is fine,” yanking his own off and tossing it on the bed, “bet Kev has no idea how to tie a tie anyway. He’s probably got his buttons mis-buttoned too. We’ll be fine,” pulling it over Mickey’s head to dispose of it. Oh fuck, and he wants to slide his hands down his back, rest them on his asscheeks and pull him in close to grind against him. But he doesn’t. Instead he smiles, “you’re so pretty.”

“Fuck off,” waving him off with an impatient glare on his face and exiting the bedroom. 

“What? It’s true,” grinning to himself as the bird is flipped from around the open doorway, “might as well figure out how to accept compliments. You’ll be getting a lot of them…”

Words knocked out of his head and disappearing from his tongue as his gorgeous face reappears with determination in his brow. Stepping in quickly, shoving the door shut behind him. His fingers are on Ian’s chin, pulling him down to his level to crash lips to lips. Parting immediately, tongue exploring every instance of Ian’s as their worlds intertwine once again to become that grey space between black and white worlds. 

Fuck, it’s incredible how quickly the clothes come off when it felt like it took a year to get them on and situated properly. Aggressive little bastard, backing Ian up until he falls onto the bed. Climbing on quickly, not even giving him the time to speak between kisses. 

“Wait,” he finally stutters as his mouth starts moving down Ian’s neck, chest, “hold on. We’ve only got like ten minutes…”

“I ain’t gonna fuck you. I’m gonna suck your dick. ‘Less you got a problem with that?” face tilting, eyebrows up as his hand slides over Ian’s more-than-ready-to-be-sucked cock. 

“No,” chokes off in his throat, before he can disappear again he takes hold of the handle of his jaw, “but when I say go, then back the fuck off. I’m not blasting one down your throat or desecrating your gorgeous face.”

“Desecrating my fuckin’ face,” he snorts his disapproval as his finger slides over the tip of Ian’s already leaking faucet of a dick, “guess I better hurry.”

“Gorgeous face,” he corrects him, “oh fuck,” as his tongue swirls around the head once before he sinks down the full length. Ian barely has time to find a dirty t-shirt on the floor before he’s gasping out a, “go. Go, fuck. Go,” jerking it into the shirt with a sigh, “fuck, Mick,” tilting his head to watch him. 

He’s chewing on his lower lip. He’s fighting the internal fight. Wanting to finish stripping, wanting to just get down to business, erase his anxiety about today by beating himself senseless on Ian’s dick. 

“Come here,” coaxing gently, reaching for the handle of his jawline to guide him to his lips. Hands sliding down his chest as his body leans over Ian’s. Down his stomach, noting the rising of goosebumps on his perfect flesh. Fingers gracing the most exquisite cock he’s ever touched in his life. Feeling a hitch in Mickey’s breath against his mouth. He nods, breaking the kiss to lean forehead to forehead.  
He wants to ask if he’s okay. But even if he’s not, he’ll nod anyway. Nudging his face away, wanting to see it in his eyes. Wanting to watch the Great Dark Spot as his fingers grasp and rub that soft delicate skin. Swirling like the storm raging inside his body at any given moment, but it’s swirling slowly right now. Slowly, leaving an opening that Ian would be blind not to see. 

“I love you,” he reminds him, his free hand tracing up his spine and landing on the back of his head as he disappears into his safe haven under Ian’s chin. His hand resting on Ian’s chest, over his heart. His magnetic pull guiding every single beat, pulling the organ to his own, forcing his rhythm so calm. So even. So vulnerable. He wants to say it, he wants to say he’ll never hurt him. He’ll never harm him. But a spoken promise is a broken promise. The proof is in the actions. 

Tilting his chin, pressing his lips into that raven black, silky soft hair while his incredible cock pulses to climax in his grip. 

“You’re okay,” reminding him as he trembles against Ian’s chest, “you’re okay.”

————

“It’s adoption day!” she nearly yells it, her arms out like she’s going to hug him, remembering who exactly he is and awkwardly stepping back. But her smile lingers and if anyone is allowed to just reach out and touch him unexpectedly it’s his sister. She opts for squeezing his arm instead. 

He’s got himself backed up against a wall by the time the Gallaghers make their rowdy way down the steps. Even now that it’s only four of them total in the house, they’re still high on the scale of noise. 

Watching them with his arms crossed over his chest. Jackets, boots, out the door they go. 

Just the two of them. Ian reaches out, his hand landing on his shoulder. Eyes rising slowly to meet his, “ready?”

“Yeah,” immediately, the knee-jerk response. Eyes filling with a quiet admission, “no.”

“Nerves, yeah?”

Shrug, squirming his way out of Ian’s grasp. He lets him go, watches as he chews on his lower lip, “we did this before. You know, I mean Mom was dead and Dad was locked up. Mandy was eleven. I was twelve. And this rich North Side couple wanted to adopt us. We didn’t even know them. Our social worker had us meet with them twice. But the system,” he shrugs, “it’s overflowing with hood rats and pieces of trash like me. So ‘round here it’s like moving cattle not humans. I just,” his hand rises, thumbing his nose, eyes lingering on Ian’s chest. This is the most he’s heard him talk at one time, “it seemed too good to be true or somethin’,” rolling his shoulders like he can shake the weight off, “but now this seems, maybe, surreal,” he shrugs, his eyes finally rising, “like I fell asleep in the den and I’m still dreaming. Kev, V, Mandy,” eyes dropping to lock onto Ian’s lips, “you.”

“Honestly Mick,” taking the chance to reach out, tilt his chin, “I feel like I’ve been dreaming since I laid eyes on you. But I can assure you,” removing his hand when his eye contact lingers, “we’re as real as they come.”

He looks likes he’s rolling something around on his tongue, cheeks slightly sucked in. Good god, the man’s bone structure, “yeah okay Gallagher.”

————

Ian can tell it is taking all the self-control Kev has ever had, every single ounce of it, to keep himself from wrapping his arms around his official son. Keep himself from pressing him into a big bear hug, lifting his feet of the ground and ruffling his hair. Something similar to what he just did to his official daughter. 

“Knuckles?” he finally wonders after giving Micky a stare-down.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, eye contact lingering, stance squared off. The only tiny give-away is the step back he takes.

“Okay,” arms resting around V and Mandy’s shoulders as he announces, “to the bar. We’ll celebrate with Cokes and ice cream.”

Gnawing on his lower lip, standing still as he watches his family walking away. 

“Hey,” Ian whispers.

Receiving his eye contact immediately with raised brows, “the fuck you want?”

He feels his hand rise from beside him, holding it out in front of Mickey, palm up, “your hand,” he shrugs. He receives it with an eye-roll. Immediately bringing it to his lips as they fall in stride-for-stride. Sure, Ian’s got a longer easier gate but Mickey’s always got a hustle in his step. Like he can’t get wherever he’s going fast enough. 

His hand is sweaty, Ian knows he won’t say it, he won’t tell them, he doesn’t want to ruin anyone else’s view on ice cream. Sour the day, the experience. He’ll just make himself scarce when the quart comes out of the freezer. A piss and a smoke. Sitting in the alley by the dumpster chewing on his thumbnail. 

That’s exactly where he is when the cones are filled. Ian told Kev he’d take Mickey’s cone out to him. Instead he dumped them both in the trash on his way, which made him cringe like fuck to waste anything edible, but smelling, tasting, or holding ice cream won’t go over well. 

He’s tucked himself in against the wall, beside the green refuse bin. His butt has to be cold on the late winter’s asphalt against his dress pants. Ian knows soon enough how cold it is as it seeps through his own pants. Planting himself firmly next to him, being pulled into his gravitational field. His lips meet Mickey’s temple quickly, feeling his Neptune lean towards him in return. 

————

“It’s still fuckin’ weird,” grumbling against Ian’s back, “you’re too fuckin’ tall, man.”

“It was worth a shot,” he shrugs, rolling over to face Mickey in the dimness of his bedroom. The little spoon doesn’t really want to be the big spoon, he reaches out to trace his jawline. They’re still trying to figure this out. How to cuddle without stifling. How to be close without Ian’s uncontrollable dick poking him in the butt. On the occasion that he spends the night. He’s not allowed on school nights. Who knew Kev and V would have so many rules? Building a protective dome over him immediately when he became theirs. And as far as they were concerned, he became theirs the moment they laid eyes on him. 

“Wanna make-out?”

“I wanna fuck,” he sighs, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and chewing on it.

“Nope.”

Flopping over to his back to avoid eye contact. His arm strewn over his face immediately. Ian’s eyes catch on his wrist. The scar there, it’ll be there for the rest of his life. And how many people will look at it? How many will stare? How many will ask? How many have?   
Fuck, “how’s school?”

“Fuck you.”

Without his permission, his hand slides over, tracing the thin delicate skin marked with a permanent reminder.

Jerking his hand away. Turning quickly, rolling himself on top of Ian, grasping his wrists to press them back against the headboard. He can feel the warmth of his body, the pull of his gravity, “we fuckin’ or not Gallagher?”

Fuck, he wants to say yes. He wants to turn him over, kiss every single inch of his flesh, feel every single breath against his chest, every single instance of his body under his fingertips, “no.”

“Suit yourself,” getting up, the agreement has been to wear shorts and a t-shirt. Layers to keep them away from one another. Reaching for his zipper hoodie on the floor, jamming his arms through it.

“Hold on,” seated on the edge of the bed, reaching out to grasp for his hand, “don’t just walk away please. Talk to me.”

“No.”

“Where you goin’? Home? I’ll walk you over.”

“Don’t,” yanking his hand away, “don’t fuckin’,” it rises to press into his eyelids. Grinding and rubbing, forcing his breathing to even out. It drops and his eyes open, blinking rapidly before locking onto Ian’s, “school fucking sucks. It’s fucking boring. And what? I fuckin’ wear a watch on either wrist to hide this shit?” both arms reaching out, wrists up and together like he’s waiting to be cuffed, “it was easier before,” his eyes are burning, “before I met you. I followed the rules and I did my part. I didn’t get in trouble. I didn’t need to be punished. Then you fuckin’,” his breath hitches. He’s not backing up. He’s standing his ground, holding eye contact. 

Good. Talk please, keep talking. He doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, doesn’t let his expression give anything away.

“You fuckin’ show up and wanna fuckin’ fix me or some shit. Want shit to feel good and be respectful or whatever. And now I gotta act like I don’t wanna fuck, just ‘cause it won’t solve my fuckin’ problems or somethin’. I’m seventeen. What seventeen year old isn’t having sex?”

“Plenty,” he responds.

“Yeah, fuckin’ uptight losers and religious pricks and shit. Who were you fuckin’ when you were seventeen?”

He shrugs. Kash, a classmate, an ROTC friend. Who wasn’t Ian fucking?

“I’m not a fucking kid anymore. Ain’t like I’m some virgin, waitin’ for my wedding night. Ain’t like I don’t know how it feels. Know what I want,” his voice trails off. Bottom lip being dragged into his teeth, this time the bite is suggestive instead of nervous, “no different from anyone else,” he whispers as his arms cross over his chest, fingers gripping tight to his elbows. 

He’s not backing up. He’s having this discussion with steady eye contact. He’s not taking off his clothes. 

“Come over here?”

Head shake. Now the bite is nervous.

Ian watches his own hand appear in the air between them. Open, palm up, waiting, “you are different Mick. That’s why it matters. How old were you when your mom started touching you?”

“Fuck off. This ain’t about that,” now those beautiful blue orbs drop to the floor, the crossed arms become more of a self-hug and he takes a tiny step back.

“I know. I know it isn’t.”

“So suckin’ your dick earlier, that was okay? But fucking isn’t?”

Flapping his hand in the air impatiently to at least get his attention, “it’s called taking it slow. Why do you want to fuck all of a sudden?”  
“All of a sudden? Why’s it fuckin’ matter?”

“Because if you’re using sex as a distraction, or…”

“Fuck off doc. We’ve fucked before, ain’t like I can’t take nine inches,” his hands are starting to release, starting to slide to the hem of his t-shirt. Eyes rising, locking onto Ian’s now with that faked confidence, “I can take it,” gripping his shirt. 

It’s rising and so is Ian. To his feet to cover those hands, “hold on. Not about taking it. It’s about wanting it. Or not wanting it,” leaning in close to his face, nose nudging into Mickey’s, taking the chance to slide his hands up his arms, gripping his shoulders, “okay?”

His lip trembles before he can suck it into his teeth to hide it, hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. He gives in when Ian’s hand rounds his shoulder, following the trail of his spine to his lower back and pressing him close. Forehead finding refuge under Ian’s chin, “I don’t,” it chokes off, barely gasping out, “don’t want to be different.”

Tilting to press lips against the top of his head, a deep breath of his scent, “you are different because you are strong. And brave. You are a survivor. You have been through things that most of us can’t even imagine,” left hand slipping down his arm, taking hold of his hand, bringing his wrist into view between them as he leans out, “you’ll never forget where you’ve been,” lips meeting the silky smooth texture of that scar, “but where you’re going Mick, is up to you. You have so much heart and so much determination, there is no reason for anything to hold you back,” drawing his hand into his chest, against his heart. Leaning into his lips for a sweet moment to overtake his soul with a calm familiarity, “I love you. And I am so proud of you.”

He pulls away, fingers spreading out, reaching for Ian’s face, tapping his cheek while he studies his face, “fuckever tough guy. Gonna suck my dick?”

“No,” sliding his hands down to take hold of his hips, keeping him in tight, “we’re going to make-out and dry hump until we both splooge all over our shorts.”

Ian’s never been outside of Chicago. But he is absolutely certain there is not a sight on this planet more beautiful than the face of the man looking up at him from his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost wanted to chronicle how horrible it would be for Mickey to adjust to school. But that itself could get too long.
> 
> I think I'm done overanalyzing these last chapters, so I will probably get them all posted today.


	24. Shifting Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's perspective now that he's easing into a better chapter of his life.

Shifting Shadows

 

The damp early morning summer breeze swirling through the open window. Gracing across the bare surface of his freckled skin. Patterns of sun and shade fighting for space on his flesh. Mickey reaches out, laying his palm flat on the smooth plane of his shoulder-blade, watching the light playing it’s pattern on the back of his hand over Ian’s body. Touch the light, let the dark overtake. Hold the light, let the dark recede. 

He can feel the warmth in it. In Ian’s skin against his palm. And in the sun splashing through the curtains when the breeze yanks them to the side. FUCK on his fingers, silk on his wrist. The healing band of silk. A daily reminder, an hourly reminder, a forever reminder. Not of the pain and the fear. Not anymore. Not of the cold and alone. Not anymore. 

The sun’s droplets of golden dew on pale skin. The warmth. The heat produced by a body he’ll never fear touching. Not alone. Not anymore.

It shifts into shadows. Into darkness. But it’s not cold. 

And it’s not alone.

Blades of spring grass laden with dew. A late summer maple leaf swaying in an easy breeze. The warm glow of Christmas lights against the green of a Christmas tree. The green wet surface of the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s day. And the promise of summer on a fresh green sprout breaking through the damp dirt after a long winter. 

“Mornin’ sleepy face,” he hears himself whisper. Like a dusty old memory, like a shoebox worth of memories forever lingering in photographs, living under boxes in the attic of an old house with peeling paint and musty carpet, torn curtains and rusty pipes. 

He doesn’t respond vocally, a small smile spreading on his face while he leans forward, laying his pursed lips against Mickey’s hip. His breath sending shudders of wanting through his core. Arm strewn over his lap, loose and easy. 

Tips of his fingers slowly glancing over Ian’s warm skin, finding his hair as the sun lights it up to embers sparkling against his pillow. Spreading to flame as the wind blows the curtain open. Being dimmed once again as the breeze whispers back out the open window.   
Light to burning to dark. 

But not alone. 

His face nuzzles deeper into the side of Mickey’s leg, burrowing his way between the leg and the bed. And his breathing shifts again. Softer against bare flesh. Gentler against his body. 

Mickey slides a strand of hair through his fingers as Ian falls back into sleep. His arm heavy across Mickey’s thighs. His hand flat on the mattress beside him. 

Leaning his head back against the headboard. The feel of satin beneath his fingers, the heat of Ian’s flesh. The sun reaching into the room and kissing every surface of his bed. Golden and brilliant. Taking time to brush against every single freckle on Ian’s shoulders. Taking time to comb fire through every single strand of his hair. Before it recedes. 

There is beauty in the shadows. The way they darken the dips in his body. The way they glide across the definition of his muscular frame. The way they dull his hair to the crown of a red oak. 

He listens as the neighborhood comes alive outside the open window. As the house comes alive through the closed bedroom door. As the world keeps rotating and shifting, ending night to become day. 

He watches as the sun’s glow sharpens from golden to white. From soft and gentle to bright and needy on the flat of Ian’s back. 

He watches as the shadows slither away, making their distance, fading to nothing but a memory. A memory like an old peeling photograph. Tucked into a shoebox. Stacked beneath boxes. In an attic of an old house. Where the wallpaper is peeling. And the carpet is musty. The pipes groan like ghosts trapped in the drywall. Where the L rattles the windows and the curtains are torn.


	25. My Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spread a blanket out and look for stars... pshhh get a damn telescope and look for planets.

My Star

 

It’s still warm in the evenings. The picnic blanket spread out beneath them. The sky beginning to turn shades of night. 

One of the perks of Debbie having some babysitting gigs with rich couples is that they throw a lot of shit in the garbage. A lot of shit that cost a shit ton of money and is still perfectly usable. Like the telescope that Ian set up when they first got here about an hour ago. Mickey’s impatient protests and, ‘the fuck we doin’ here Gallagher?’, nothing more than entertainment to Ian. He had to bite the bullet and buy a car. With classes, and Debbie’s high end babysitting jobs on the North Side, with Carl’s incessant quest to get a license and be the family chauffeur. It just made more sense than taking the L everywhere or paying for an Uber. 

The drive out of the city isn’t bad. The hike back to this particular peak isn’t bad. And the calm expression on Mickey’s face as he leans back on his elbows on the plaid blanket, well, that’s just plain old fucking gorgeous.

“The fuck you lookin’ at firecrotch?” without even turning his head.

“Neptune,” without hesitation.

Middle finger rising without hesitation. Head cocking to the side and a muttered, “c’mere,” the only thing Ian needs to get to his feet. Only to get to his knees and slide his body over Mickey’s. Hand behind his head as he leans him back into the blanket on the grassy knoll. 

His fingers brush through the raven silk of his hair, watching his face for a moment, just one to overflow his memory. He’ll never need to memorize this face, how can you memorize something that’s lived in your very fibers for a hundred lives and million moments? But the feeling, the feeling when he watches this face watching him. The vulnerability and openness overtaking his perfect features. The comfort and love pulsing through his eyes and the feel of his hands branding Ian’s flesh with every brush of a fingertip. 

Leaning in slowly. His lips are a pillow, and Ian only wants to rest on them for a moment. To breathe. To take a deep inhale through his nose and allow that familiar scent to breeze through every corridor of his mind. 

Lips parting slowly. Lazily, as Ian’s tongue grazes the surface of them. Following the heat to his open mouth. Meeting the welcoming taste of his tongue and lingering there. 

Hands finding the back of Ian’s t-shirt, breaking the kiss only to pull it over his head. Palms, stretched fingers glancing across his bare back, one slipping into his hair and staying planted firmly there on the back of his head to draw him deeper into his mouth. Enveloping him in this world that will never become foreign again. 

That perfect silk cocoon they’ve built around themselves starting to disintegrate with every delicate movement. Pulling every single string until it’s nothing but their bare flesh and the warmth of a late summer night. 

His hands are everywhere until they’re nowhere and his mouth is tilting away from Ian’s and he’s looking up at him, the darkness descending around them and whispering, “I want to feel you.”

“You sure?”

Idiot. Way to break the mood. Expect the defenses to rise and resistance, the walls coming back up, the stubborn claims that he’s fine and he can take it.

Instead, “yeah,” calm smile. Slow nod. 

And Ian’s hands shake, glad for the room to shove them under his lower back, draw him closer. Ian has come to adore bottoming with this man in the last few weeks, something he never thought he’d prefer, but with the delicate touch and horrendous whispers from his soul to Ian’s, it’s become an ache deep in his bones to let himself feel whole, complete, like his entire universe has fallen into place when Mickey is inside of him. Mind, body, and soul. 

Those wicked beautiful whispers spoken by his fingertips and painted across his blue irises, those promises of, ‘you will always be mine’. They linger as Ian watches his face, the pad of his thumb tracing over his lips. Instinctively opening at the contact. Meeting them with his own as his hand finds the grip of his jaw, a tender hold, feeling the movement of his kisses with the tips of his fingers. 

He’s fucking terrified. But the calm lull of Mickey’s heart against his ribs, beating a gentle pattern, pulling Ian’s into his tide of blood and lust and love. 

Part of him wants to tell him to wait. Until they’re in bed. Until there’s a soft, comfortable mattress underneath him. Until he can be blanketed with sheets and wrapped in the down of a comforter afterwards. He wants to remind him that there are no corners out here in the wilderness surrounding them. There is nowhere to hide, to rock, to kennel himself if his world comes crashing down. 

Drawing back to look into his eyes once again. It’s not true, is it? Planting his elbows on the blanket beside his ribs, his hands beneath his shoulder blades, his body overtop of Mickey’s like a shield. It’s not true. Right here, right here in Ian’s arms, beneath his body, right here is exactly the right place to hide. He sees it clearly in the blue expanse of his eyes glittering in the reflection of the night’s sky. 

“Okay,” he hears himself agree finally. He wants to go down on him, he wants to taste him, warm him up with his mouth and his tongue until he’s so relaxed and ready that he’ll be near the brink of crashing that ocean wave before he even enters his body. But he stays, lingering over him. Hands sliding down his back, around his hips as he leans up, allowing himself the space to feel every instance of warm skin beneath his fingertips. Sliding down his thighs, meeting the beautifully rolling hill of his asscheek and beyond it to the valley.

Left hand digging through the picnic basket for lube. Knowing they’d fuck at some point, assuming it’d be the other way around. A picnic dinner complete with a bottle of lube for the dessert activities. Prepared like a boy-scout.

Lips smoldering against lips, hard to concentrate on anything else as he drips the lube all over his hands. Both hands. He’ll use this whole damn bottle by the end of the night. 

His exhale becoming Mickey’s inhale as he grasps his gorgeous cock with his left and starts working his way down, fingers over every wrinkle of his ball sack with his right hand. Leaving a trail of slick moisture on the way. 

His body is completely pliable under Ian’s touch. It’s warm and it’s buzzing with electricity as Ian leans forehead to forehead and watches those eyes so closely when he presses the first finger into his body. A hitched gasp of pleasure exits against Ian’s mouth. Feeling the motion of a nod against his forehead he lingers. Allowing a moment to rest. Turning his face to kiss a tender trail across his jaw, to the delicate pale skin of his neck, his throat. Feeling his Adam’s Apple bob beneath his lips with a swallow as he glides another finger beside the first. 

Releasing his cock to angle his body closer. Chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Letting his pelvis do some work to rub against him as his left hand finds the back of Mickey’s head. Fingers gentle, guiding his head to tilt. Allowing full access to his throat for Ian to nuzzle against. 

Mickey’s hands are gripping, fingers indenting the sensitive skin of Ian’s inner arms as he works a third finger into him. A gasp that forces Ian’s head to rise, to lean over Mickey’s face and wait for his eye contact. For that reassurance that it was pleasure and not pain. That it was wanted and not just taken. That it was welcome. 

He nods. His lips pursed until he whispers, “I want you.”

He could have been at this for five minutes or five hours. Funny how time moves when he’s wrapped in this man’s presence. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. He could spend the rest of this life and part of the next one prepping him and it’ll never seem like enough. 

“Okay,” whispering back, leaning close to his lips but staying far enough away to watch his face as he guides his yearning dick past the threshold. Eyes plastering themselves shut, a shudder racing through his body under Ian’s. He waits, stays still, rolling more lube around his dick with his hand. Waiting until his eyes open. Until he nods the okay, until his breathing is even and gentle against Ian’s cheek. 

Slowly, barely rocking into him. Watching his face, waiting for any sign of pain or discomfort. Waiting for that first glimpse of panic to spark across his irises in the glow of the moon. 

He is hauntingly beautiful in this light. The moon and an entire galaxy of stars and planets radiating off his luminescent skin. Jesus fuck, whoever put this man together, fuck, they knew what they were doing, “you are gorgeous Mick.”

“Fuck you Gallagher.”

“Next time,” smiling against those perfect lips.

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to start actually moving here if you want me to…”

Cutting him off by pressing his lips hungrily against his. Parting immediately and tangling with his tongue passionately. The rocking of his pelvis barely picking up pace. Just enough to make Mickey gasp one of those primal moans stifled into Ian’s mouth. Just enough to make Mickey’s body surge against his. His lower back arching off the ground, inviting Ian’s hand to press against it, to draw him that much closer to his body. 

Just enough rocking to open that crack. The crack in their souls that becomes a raw wound in the flesh of their beings. The one that tears the silk cocoon away haphazardly, tossing it aside. The one that becomes barren, windswept and awe-inspiring. The one that opens only for one another, open only for the touch and feel and passion of one another. The one that has always existed and can only be filled by the other’s touch and kiss. 

————

The wave smashes against the beach. Littering the sand with beach glass and driftwood. Pebbles and a million sparkling droplets of broken water shattering itself as it lurches to a halt, seeping into the land and slowly fading away to nothing.

Hands holding either side of Mickey’s face as he gasps for air and his eyes wildly search Ian’s for everything familiar and safe. 

“You’re okay,” he hears himself, knowing it’s himself this time, and he repeats it anyway, “you’re okay,” watching rapid-fire blinks, feeling fingers denting bruises into his arms, “you’re okay.”

Forehead leaning into forehead as soon as his eyes close, “you’re okay,” whispering against his lips. Feeling the branding into his flesh from his burning fingertips. The promise that Ian never minded and never resisted.

The promise of always belonging to Mickey. Of being his and his only. Of never feeling the same after that very first moment. Of never being able to feel the touch of another soul. 

“I love you,” he reminds him, gently siding his hands through his hair. Feeling his strained breath against his lips starting to soften. Starting to even out. Starting to fall back to something manageable. 

Lips, needy and wanting for comfort rise up to find Ian’s. Desperate and painful with all the echoes of the others rattling around in his head. They’ll always be there. They will always be there. Quieting, fading. Becoming nothing more than a tiny particle of sand on the shore of an endless beach. 

————

“It’s Neptune,” hands on his hips as he leans into the telescope, the blanket around Ian’s shoulders, bodies bare in the cooling of the night. Midnight exactly, “this is the best view you’ll have of it any night this year.”

Ian’s arms slip around his waist, bringing the edges of the picnic blanket with him, drawing his hips back, towards his body as he watches silently. Dipping in, forehead against the back of his head as he inhales the most incredible scent on the face of this Earth. Mickey. 

My Mickey.

“You wanna look?”

“No,” pressing lips against his spine, “I don’t need a telescope to see my Neptune.”

“Wow, that’s fuckin’ cheesy firecrotch.”

“Mmhmm.”

He snorts out a laugh, “you went through all the trouble of drivin’ out here, settin’ this thing up, and you ain’t gonna look through it?”

“Maybe in a little bit,” mumbled against his flesh. 

He falls silent, engrossed in the sight through the scope for long enough that Ian is beginning to wonder if he’s even seeing anything of interest. When he hears a quiet muffled gasp his spine straightens and his arms tighten instinctively around his body, “you okay?”

Nod, hands rising to wipe at his cheeks, “fuck,” shakes and hitches. 

Gentle to spin him, nuzzle against his nose to gain his eye contact when he draws away, leaving his arms wrapped loosely around him. Blinking up at him, Ian thinks there is no way, no how, no place that anything could ever be more intense than the sky and ocean mingling together at the horizon peering up at him. Admitting, “your cheesy fuckin’ plan worked you prick,” while he wipes tears off his cheeks with a half-smile. 

“So,” he sighs, “will you?” sliding a finger across his cheek, cupping his chin. He wrote it on a transparent shield in tiny script so it’d be hard to see, but right there in front of his planet. 

“Well, yeah. But I,” he stutters a little. Clearing his throat and trying to pretend it’s not a big deal, it’s not a huge step. It’s just next door, it’s not even far enough away from home to really be away from the only home he’s ever been able to call a home, “I,” he starts again. He’s horrible at admitting he’d have a need, or a want, or anything that could even be mildly construed as selfish.

“It’s okay,” thumb brushing across his perfect lips, “I’ll wait.”

Nodding as his eye contact fails, “I want to,” he admits to Ian’s chest, “I just…”

He’s scared. And that’s okay, “I know. How ‘bout this? How about you start with a drawer full of clothes, a toothbrush, a stick of deodorant? You start with sleeping over when you’re comfortable, when you want to. And when you don’t want to, then don’t. It won’t hurt my feelings,” he wants to tilt his chin, he wants to force his gaze. But he waits.

“Just with Mandy, and,” make it about someone else. Make it about her comfort level instead of his own. Of course he’d do that.

“I understand Mick. I honestly do. But just so you know, that offer will stand for…” his breath is knocked out of his lungs when his Neptune eyes rise, reflecting the glow of the moon and every star in every solar system, “forever,” shrugging at the dopey invitation. Feeling a smile rising on his own face, mouth pulled upwards in anticipation of what’s to come on Mickey’s face. 

It rises. It rises slowly, but it’s there. Goddamn, those smiles will never get old, “okay. I’ll start with a drawer. But that means you have to clean out a drawer.”

“Done,” he’ll just cram it in the closet. Or in Carl’s room. It’s not that Ian has enough of his own stuff to fill the dresser. It’s that he chickened out on getting rid of all of the stuff he boxed up, told the kids to go through. Borrowing Kev’s truck that afternoon, packing the boxes in the back and driving to the Good Will. It kept clinging to him, that thought, that fucking echo in his head of ‘what if they come back?’. And he couldn’t do it. Not all of it. 

The shirt Fi was wearing the day before she left. The eye mask that still smelled like her, and her fucking hair brush. Like she’d need her fucking hair brush. Not just Lip’s notebooks and the clothes that were still in good shape that he could wear himself or hand down the line. But his cap and gown. The first graduating Gallagher. In what will become a complete clan of Gallaghers. Debbie walked with a golden sash marking her as one of the elite. 

Monica’s stupid china tea set. The one stupid thing she had left of her childhood and for whatever fucking reason he couldn’t toss it. 

Nothing of Frank’s though. Who the fuck needs a reminder of that asshole? His voice in the Alibi droning on about the white man’s plight is more than enough of a reminder of Frank. Fuck Frank. 

Forehead meeting forehead. A deep inhale of Mickey’s presence, hand through his hair. He won’t admit it. He’ll never say it out loud, not to anyone. But some nights when he wakes in a cold sweat with panic-blind eyes, when he corners himself and blocks himself in, when he curls up on the floor and stares through the night until the morning sun rises and starts painting his bedroom in light; those are the mornings that he watches the door quietly open. He watches it from under the dresser as her feet pad across the carpeting. And he listens as she sits down on the other side of his blockade. He listens as she sips her espresso in silence. He listens to her breathing. He listens to her flipping the pages of her magazine. The occasional scoff at whatever the latest celebrity trend is. He listens to her. And he drifts back into a calm peaceful sleep. He listens to his mother, he lets the gentle love from her soul envelope him from the other side of his barricade, one she knows not to cross, not to reach under or around. She doesn’t ask him to talk. She doesn’t ask him to come out. She waits. She reads her magazine, sips her coffee and waits until she hears his sleep breathing. Then she cranes her head, looking through the only space she knows will gain her a full view of him. Curled on his side, back against the wall, hands clasped tightly together, tucked under his chin. She watches him. She watches his eyes beneath his lids, she takes a moment to gauge his level of comfort. She wipes a single tear from her eye. And she tip-toes out the bedroom door. 

It has little to do with Mandy. His resistance to moving in with Ian. That’s just the easiest excuse. A brother protecting his younger sister. That’s easier than admitting he needs his mom. He’s not ready to leave his mom. 

How many times can a person walk through Hell before they’re nothing but ashes?

“I love you,” reminding him. Again. He’ll never get tired of that reminder, it’ll always be right there on the tip of his tongue. It’ll always be right there under his touch. In his chest, with every beat of his heart. 

Mickey’s palms are flat on his chest. Deciding when is the right time to push away, when is the contact going to become too much. Right now just resting there, just braced for when, “I love you,” responding quietly. Eyes shifting to the side, away from Ian’s gaze.

Releasing his hold on Mickey’s body. Letting him take that step back. His half-nod towards the telescope, “look at it. It’s pretty cool.”

Turning without stepping out of the way. The invitation to remain close. A deep breath and his chin slowly meeting Mickey’s shoulder, resting there as he looks through the scope. Listening to his own Neptune breathing, feeling his hand rising, sliding down Ian’s left arm to lock their fingers together, rising the woven-together affirmation to his lips and holding it there. 

Yeah the blue planet is pretty fucking cool, but it’s got nothing on Mickey. Without the telescope it looks like nothing more than a distant faded star. But Ian knows, and he’ll always know, that it’s his star.

My star. My Mickey. 

Backing away from the view to bury his face in the side of Neptune’s neck. It’s always been this way, hasn’t it? In every possible version of every possible life, in every dream and every waking moment. It’ll always be this man, it always has been. This man branding his flesh and torching his soul. This man.

Mine. Mine. Mine. In every breath and every glancing moment of eye contact. In every beat of his heart and every touch of his skin. Mine. Mine. Mine. Wicked and beautiful. Terrifying and wonderful. Calming and exhilarating. 

His hand slides to the handle of Mickey’s jaw. Gently guiding his face to turn as he lifts out of his neck. Looking at his eyes, at the most overwhelming blue he’s ever seen in this life and all the rest, watching that ocean tide, feeling that gravity. Feeling that reckless abandon that pulls their lips together. That crashing and diving, that meeting and overtaking, that collision as Ian is pulled into his blue planet. Arms encircling him in the protective arc of his love. Sparks of a big bang, atoms exploding in his eyelids. Distant thunder rumbling on the horizon and waves crashing the beach. Valleys shifting, cracking, becoming open wounds in the face of the planet. Everything. Everything swirling and combining. Exploding with a life-affirming chant of his soul’s whispers. 

Everything. It’s everything. Everything under his fingertips and against his lips. Everything in that grey space between their souls. Everything. Everything in this universe. And the only thing that matters, the one and only thing that has ever mattered. This man.   
This man who is solid and real against his flesh in the cool of the night. This night that is bleeding into another day. Bleeding into another day in a sea of days. Into an endless supply of moments. Moments that will be forever cherished, forever remembered as the brand of Mickey’s soul into Ian’s becomes that permanent thing. That one real, palpable, reliable thing. That one that always has and always will, live there under his skin, always has and always will be with him, in him, and around him. 

As the early September sun is climbing into the pale blue sky. As sleep starts blurring into wake. As the scent of nature and dew on the grass is overtaken by the scent of Mickey’s neck. As the feel of the cool dampness on his bare back is pushed away by the warmth of his body against his chest. As the world is waking around them and he’s still sound asleep in Ian’s arms, he takes the time to ingest this scent that he’s carried with him always, he presses his lips against the knob of his spine, he feels Mickey’s fingers warm and perfectly fit between his. He feels his ribs expanding against his arms, his pattern slowly turning to wake as he whispers his reminder, “I love you,” against the cool heat of his bare smooth flesh, “always.”


	26. Will You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost made it in 25 chapters. Not quite.
> 
> Five years later.

Will You

 

Five years later…

 

“You corny fuckin’…” it chokes off and his hands rise, coming between his face and the telescope to rub into his lids hard. But the gasping doesn’t subside and Ian feels himself smiling, leaning into his bare shoulder to press lips against flesh in the cool of the early Autumn night.

The first year was ‘will you move in with me?’, the second year was ‘will you please move in with me?’, the third year was ‘you’re so pretty’. That one went over well. Last year was ‘seriously, you’re so pretty’. That one went over really well. And this year, well, this year is, “will you?” whispered against his skin.

He pauses. Taking a moment, a few deep breaths. Turning to face Ian, eyes sparked in the glow of the stars and moon and his planet behind him faded in the distance, “ask me like a man. Face to face.”

Fingers through his hair, tilting his head back, drawing his face that much closer to watch the mist on his horizon, wondering gently, “will you marry me?”

“Yeah, you stupid fuck,” both hands shoving into his chest.

Ian stumbles back, allowing him the room to sort it out. Tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders, watching the eery painting of nature on his Neptune’s bare flesh rising goosebumps in the night air. Every single line and indentation, every single freckle and scar. His fingertips, his lips, his tongue have travelled them all. 

Smiling to himself, watching Mickey leaning in to look through the telescope again. Wanting so badly to walk over, relax against his warmth, wrap his arms and the picnic blanket around him and cocoon him. 

He’ll wait. 

It’s been a long time since he’s woken to the sight of him huddled in the corner. It’s been a long time since he’s had that wild broken look in his eyes. Since he’s looked like he wants to disappear into thin air. 

It’s been an adjustment in the last year with Ian working mostly night shifts at the station. He plans to take the detective’s exam as soon as he meets the required amount of hours on the job. It’s exhilarating, a job he never had respect for when he was a kid and all he ever thought cops were around for was ruining a good afternoon spent getting high under the L, good for chasing them down alleys and hauling Frank to the drunk tank. It’s different on this side of it. He can make a difference, he can actually help people. Not just write traffic tickets. Last night he played basketball in the park with some of the neighborhood kids, it was past curfew but the game wasn’t over yet. It’s hard to get the hood kids to trust a guy in a cop uniform, but the only way to help them now and in the future is to gain their trust. And he’s willing to do that.

Watching. Every in and out of his breathing. Every twitch of his fingers. His fingers. Ian loves his fingers. The trail of smoldering flesh they leave behind them under every torrid touch. His wrists. The delicate, silky skin of those forever reminders. It’s been a long road, and it hasn’t ended yet. He’s working on a degree in engineering. He’s more than smart enough for it, he’s more than talented enough for it. He just has so much trouble with the classroom aspect of it. Ian is nearly certain that the only reason he made it through his senior year in high school without running out the door and never coming back, was knowing the presence of his sister in the same building. It helped that Debbie made her mission to make sure he was never alone in the hallways, at lunch time, or waiting for the bus. Her gaggle of girlfriends were more than happy to walk beside him without asking too many questions - or any questions at all - after Debbie threatened them with the shiv Carl made her. 

Leave it to Debbie to walk that line of intimidation and compassion. She’ll make it in this world. No problem. She may have chosen the path less travelled, getting her welding certificates and entering the trades. And she kicks some serious ass at it. She’ll take a job that’ll pad her bank account, enough to pay Ian rent and keep the fridge stocked. Then she just takes off in her free time to wherever the fuck she feels like going. She went sailing in the Caribbean last March. She’s been to Thailand and this winter she’s going to Alaska. Freedom to do whatever the hell she wants in her time off because she works her fucking ass off on the job.

Carl shipped off to Fort Hood in the spring. He took a year off between high school and enlisting. He wanted to be certain it was his calling and not just Ian shoving ROTC down his throat. The letters home from Basic Training were some of the most entertaining pieces of literature Ian has ever read in his life. It’s where Carl should be. A disciplined little psycho is a good one to have on the right side of the law. 

And Liam. Six years ago Ian wanted nothing more than to run. To turn his back on those big eyes framed in camel lashes. Staring at eleven years of being his rock, it was too fucking much. But now, now he’s thirteen and he started high school. And he’s beginning to resemble the man he’ll become. Ian is so fucking proud of the man he’ll become. He’s sweet and he’s gentle, caring and open for all the experiences life has to offer. He’s been shown the reality of growing up working-class poor, but he’s been given a family that loves him. And that’s pretty fucking important. And pretty fucking cool. 

Fuck, Ian did okay, didn’t he? 

He watches for that half-nod, that tiny little movement that’s more like a twitch than a nod. But it’s enough. All the permission he needs to take those steps. To walk until there’s nothing but Mickey in his arms, against his chest, stomach. There’s nothing but Mickey against his inhale and through every corridor of his mind. There’s nothing but Mickey in his entire universe. 

He turns in his arms, facing him in the darkness. A soft smile on his gorgeous face. A gentle yearning tugging at the corners of his lips. Every instance of life right there, right there written in the stars reflecting off his irises as they linger on Ian’s. 

“I love you,” he whispers, like he’s afraid if he says it too loud that Ian will disappear into thin air. Crumble to dust and blow away on the gentle breeze into the navy blanket of night.

“I love you,” leaning forehead to forehead. Taking his exhale as his own inhale before he dips into his lips. Just for a rest. Just a quick rest on that most incredible pillow Ian has ever felt against any part of his body. Just a quick rest, that’s all it is, he swears that’s all it is. But now Mickey’s lips are parting, his tongue is contacting the space between Ian’s, and, well, fuck. Whatever Mickey wants, Mickey is going to get. 

He feels himself smiling as his lips part, inviting Mickey into his soul. Into every single fiber, inviting Mickey to take down every single delicate silk strand of his cocoon. To live there with him under his skin. Neptune with his dark spot, smaller now than ever. Cobalt with his goblin ore. There’s Lapis Lazuli right there under his fingertips with his metamorphic rock. And the Arctic, vast and wickedly beautiful with his melting ice flows. And the melting in his soul, the melting in his heart, the melting from the corners of his eyes. Trickling down his cheeks as Ian catches each tear with his thumbs and smudges it out before it can become an ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not need another chapter for my ramblings this time. I don't have a hell of a lot to say about this one other than if you're still here - thanks for making it! This one got rougher than I intended. 
> 
> When I sat down to write this I thought wouldn't it be funny to take Ian's canon porn filming but when he gets there it's his boyfriend he's supposed to film the scene with. But canon Mickey would never in a million years film a porn. So that didn't work. And then of course it all went sideways from there because apparently I can't help myself.
> 
> Once again and as always I hope I handled the heavy topics with the right amount of care and respect. Once again and as always feel free to leave comments, kudos, whatever. Print off your least favorite page and piss on it. Whatever floats your boat. You won't find me on social media but if you feel it's worthy of sharing go ahead.
> 
> I have a request for a flash-forward in Right There Next To You. I have a request for an Animal Kingdom fic. And I am going to get to work on some of the chapters for Freedom To Be Me. I'm pretty excited about that one, I feel like it has so much potential to go so many ways (they won't all be happy), and hopefully I'm not biting off more than I can chew.
> 
> Thanks again for sticking it out with me. This was a weird one, I didn't entirely love taking this journey, but I'm glad you took it with me if you're still here!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


End file.
